


The Error Of Our Ways

by Volcanic_Lightning_Storm (The_Necroposter)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Canon Relationships, Dark Character, Dark Magic, Dystopia, End of the World, F/F, F/M, Hope, Magic, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, Mirror Universe, Mirror of Erised, Off-screen Relationship(s), Quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10100102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Necroposter/pseuds/Volcanic_Lightning_Storm
Summary: Ten years after the defeat of Voldemort, the whole world seems to be coming to an end. A desperate Hermione Granger sets out in a suicide mission to stop the horrific Malleus Deorum faction, and their fearsome leader Nox, from eliminating all remaining magic from the planet. She teams up with long-lost friends and old rivals, because in order to survive, they all need to put aside their differences and fight together or lose everyone they love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer and A/N: I do not own anything from Harry Potter. No copyright infringement is intended. References to other works will be pointed out in author's notes or in the text itself. If you spot something you think isn't mine, please notify me. Comments and criticisms are very welcome, as they help me improve my writing. Thank you for your attention!

 

**1** **Taking the motorway was almost suicidal, but Apparating was out of the question these days,** and Hermione Granger just had to get out of Wales and into England, all the way to London. Pansy, Parvati, Bill, and most of the others had all told her she was insane, that the whole plan was completely bonkers. Well, yes. Yes, it was. Of course it was completely bonkers. After all, no sane measures had done a damn thing to stop Nox and the Malleus Deorum, and now, Ron was…he was…

_No_.

No, she would not think about him. She wouldn’t. She _couldn’t_. There was a job that needed to be done, and there simply weren't many people left that could do it. Time was running out. Not so long ago, there had still been many safe zones in Wales, the largest one in Merthyr Tydfil, but that had been overrun by the Malleus almost a year ago. After that, the remaining free wizards and witches had fled into what had once been the Brecon Beacons National Park. A magical perimeter had been established, but as the pitiful ragtag band of starved, frightened people huddled around the dying Afon Hepste, it was clear that they were living – surviving – on borrowed time. There was no escaping the Malleus Deorum. There was no escaping Nox.

That was what everybody thought, and they were right. There was no escaping that monster, his eerie talent for rooting out those he called his enemies, and his wrath. No-one among the wizarding folk had, to their knowledge, ever seen him. No-one knew where precisely he lived, what he really looked like, and how he managed to take over the British Isles and most of Europe so quickly (maybe even the rest of the world, heaven forbid). He was ruthless, that much was sure – ruthless, brutal, efficient, and absolutely lethal. Maybe he and his freaks really were the bane of the wizarding world, the pioneers of a new and terrible world, the harbingers of death and all that.

Then again, maybe they were just an evil and power-hungry bunch like Voldemort and the Death Eaters had been, and all the purple prose and melodrama surrounding them was nothing but a way to build up their mystique and scaring their opponents. It made more sense than the alternative, in any case.

Hermione didn’t argue that those people, if one could call those monsters that, were a threat that needed to be taken seriously, that might prove too overwhelming to be beaten. What she did oppose was the paralysing fear that made those of her friends (and old antagonists) who still remained behave as if they’d already lost. There was a feeling of end-times in the air that she refused to give into. What else was there? If they gave up now, they might as well all kill themselves, because what was the use of clinging onto a life that wasn’t one? She would not admit defeat before that became unavoidable. Once upon strange aeons ago, she, Harry, and Ron had helped defeat the most dangerous dark wizard of all time. Things had changed in the aftermath and the following few years: the world had become a brighter place for all witches and wizards. The Pureblood craze started to fade, laws were passed to curb the unfortunate arbitrariness of the wizarding checks and balances system, damage was repaired. Over time, wounds started to heal.

Then, things started changing again, and now, here they were. No use crying over spilt pumpkin juice, as the vernacular went – not that anyone had got to drink any pumpkin juice in years.

Oh, well.

Outside of Brecon Beacons, there was no doing much magic. It wasn’t as bad as in and around London, but bad enough for her not to want to risk detection by the Malleus. It wasn’t as if they didn’t make any prisoners. The problem was, nobody knew what happened to those poor sods after they were bagged. She absolutely had no intention of finding out, at least not as long as she wasn’t in a position to change anything about it.

With a little luck, all of that would change.

…okay, maybe it would require a lot of luck, but only fools relied on such elusive things.

The first few days, she made her way through abandoned, burned-down and hollowed-out towns on foot, travelling at night for the most part, avoiding open spaces whenever possible. People travelling the Welsh wasteland were few, but it wasn’t unheard of. There were still regular people – i.e. Muggles – living in Wales, naturally, but they kept to themselves and were wary of strangers and passers-through. What made travelling dangerous was being a person with the ability to perform magic. Lying about it to Malleus goons was not an option, because the bastards could always tell. No-one knew how that was a thing, either, but it was. Whining about it wouldn’t change anything, though. It never did.  

It was getting dark when Hermione got to the Second Severn Crossing, by Caldicot. Years ago, when she’d been around eight years old, her parents had taken her to visit Caldicot Castle, on her insistence. She’d been going through her mediaeval castle phase, and her parents had indulged her, trekking with her to Dover, to Warwick, to York, the Tower, Windsor, etc. etc. She’d taken all the tours, read all the books, spent every little penny of her allowance on souvenirs from the castle shops.

Hermione’s childhood had been a happy one. She liked to think about that when things started looking too bleak.

The sky was clear and the stars shone rather brightly. It was a little amusing, wasn’t it? She’d half expected there to be dramatic thunder and symbolic rainfall. However, the weather rarely obliged anyone’s moods. In this case, it was less than ideal. Rain gave those who wanted to remain unseen a certain anonymity. Whelp, nothing for it. She suppressed the urge to sigh irritably, since breathing in deeply wasn’t all that advisable around these parts anymore, pulled the hood of her coat even closer over her head, adjusted the straps of her rucksack, jammed her cold and numb hands into her pockets, and gingerly stepped from the cracked motorway onto the bridge. Her mind told her that it started creaking, but that would be ridiculous. She’d never been heavy, but even the largest individual alive could not topple this bridge by themselves.

No, it was just the wind. There was some wear and tear, since no-one had done any repairs on this monstrosity for at least five years, but it would hold. It would hold. It had to. The bridge was, if Hermione’s memory didn’t fail her, about a mile long. That wasn’t so bad. Even if any cars were to cross at the same time, they’d pay no need to a lone figure walking in the shadows. Maybe they wouldn’t even see her. Maybe…

…good God! Enough of that!

Telling herself to cut out the nonsense, she marched onward. Below her, the Severn flowed, unaware of the fact that it was dying, that everything was slowly petering out, vanishing, just ending day by day. A fragment of an old poem came to mind:

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not with a bang, but a whimper._

Ah, nothing better than some depressing T.S. Eliot soundbite to make herself feel erudite in this broken, crap-sack hellhole. Sad really was happy for deep people, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that from some old TV show or other? It was hard to remember. So many small things became irrelevant in the great scheme of things. She chuckled and shook her head at herself. If there still was time for this kind of nonsense, then all was not lost.

That was when she heard the sound of a motor revving behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **_Oh, crap! Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh no!_ ** The thought kept repeating itself as she tried to stay calm, tried to not panic, tried to just keep walking at a brisk pace whilst simultaneously trying to come up with a viable plan b. Getting to London was always a long shot, and crossing the Severn undetected a rather big risk under the best of circumstances, but there was _no other way_ , and therefore, she’d deemed the risk worth it. Now, her mind was racing, wanting to give her a way out and, at the same time, blame her for not trying to circumvent the Severn, or trying to swim through. But these musings are superfluous and stupid, because there _was_ no choice. Going the long route north would take forever, and not only didn’t they have forever, but the longer journey would increase the risk of capture exponentially. Swimming wasn’t an option, either. She’d not make it halfway through, and there were the contents of her rucksack that she needed to keep dry.

Behind her, the motor revved again. This was a car, only just driving onto the bridge. Where had it come from? Were these Malleus Deorum who were charged with guarding the bridge? Were they here to catch her? Had she walked into a trap? She kept on walking, hoping, praying to any deity that might be out there despite her lack of faith, that those were people, just innocent people, wanting to be left alone and survive. Survivors. That was it. These weren't-

The sound of a horn honking made her flinch.

Her heart was thundering, her stomach roiling. She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around, her breath hitching in her throat. Further back, there was a…what, a Jeep? Yes, a battered, grey Jeep, slowly rolling toward her. They honked the horn again – an ugly, blaring, cacophonous belch of a sound that was worse than nails on a chalkboard. The Jeep’s headlights flared, hurting her eyes. The motor revved again. The car accelerated.

Understanding came to her like a slap in the face: the Malleus Deorum had found her. There was no way out. There was no escaping. She was halfway across the bridge, and there was no way to go.

There was no way to go but down.

 

* * *

 

**3** **Her time was almost up. Again, she had to make a choice that wasn’t one.** If the Malleus caught her, she’d be doomed. In all probability, they’d get the location of the last wizard rebels out of her before killing her – killing her or worse. No, that must not happen. If she jumped, she might survive. She might make it. She…

…she told herself to stop the infantile nonsense. The jig was up. Her mission was a failure. The only thing left for her to do was protect her friends and buy them a little time.

The wind pulled at her clothes and her hair. Her fingers were numb and clammy, her teeth chattering, beads of sticky sweat slithering down her back. The rucksack was weighing her down. It would pull her into the water. And what of the tide? She’d not had any tables to memorise before setting out.

Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter.

She grabbed the cold metal of the railing and started pulling herself up. The Jeep was closing in. She could hear them now, the monsters in the car, hollering and laughing. They’d not get her. Her life might be at an end, but she wouldn’t let them make her give up her friends’ location or the last-ditch, desperate plan they’d concocted in order to prevent the end of everything. That would not happen. It couldn’t. Ignoring the approaching sound of the car, she clenched her teeth and climbed upon the railing. There was no time like the present. All she needed was-

There was a loud bang. Something whizzed past her ear.

Oh, great. They had guns.

No. No distraction. She focussed, stepped up, looked down. The lights were almost on her. The monsters were jeering. Another shot. Another. No more time. No more. She needed to jump. She needed-

For a ludicrous second, it felt like someone punched her in the thigh. Then, the pain flared. Her leg was on fire. She lost her balance, tottered, grabbed for purchase, but found none. It happened sluggishly, as in slow motion. Her stomach lurched. She fell.

That was when it happened: the world distorted. Arms wrapped around her. Everything disappeared.

She came to on some kind of soft ground – earth. Grass. Something. It was pretty dark. There were trees. Lying on her back, she was gasping for air, grabbing at the gunshot wound in her thigh. Hot, sticky blood oozed through her fingers. The pain was indescribable, radiating up to her hip and down to her toes. She clenched her teeth, pressed her lips together, and shut her eyes, focussing on her ragged breathing.

What had happened? Who had saved her? How had they Apparated – _Apparated!_ – in a Malleus Deorum controlled zone? How was any of this possible?

“You’re bleeding. Damn it. Did I splinch you?”

The sound of this voice – male, young, clear, posh, vaguely familiar – made her flinch. She forced her eyes open again, but they were watering too badly, and it was pretty gloomy, anyway. “I…gunshot…”

“Fucking Muggles think they own the place.” The stranger chuckled. It sounded bitter. “They actually do now, don’t they? Unbelievable. Here, let me help.”

“ _Don’t_ …I…who…” She couldn’t complete the thought in her head, let alone force the words out. Stars and pitch-black blotches were dancing before her eyes. She felt queasy – queasy and tired. Sleep sounded good right about now.

“Heroism now, exposition later. Here: a little light should do the trick. _Lumos_.”

The sudden sphere of white brightness blinded her. She shut her eyes.

“Oh, that’s _nasty_. Don’t worry, though. I know just the thing, then we can leave this shithole and get somewhere more appropriate.” The stranger cleared his throat, then added, “ _Vulnera Sanentur_.”

Immediately, the burning started to fade. Beneath her fingers, Hermione could feel her skin mending. Then, it was all over, the screaming agony of the hole that the projectile had ripped into her flesh only a memory. After a short while, her breathing calmed, as did her heartbeat. She was drenched in sweat, her stomach lurching. Groaning, she tried to sit up, but only managed after the stranger gave her a helping hand. With clammy, trembling hands, she wiped some knotty strands of her messy hair from her face, blinked, and faced the person who’d saved her life.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he said, an undercurrent of nervousness in his otherwise jovial tone, “but we really need to get going. The Malleus thugs won’t be happy about a wizard finding a loophole in their precious magic-free zones. Wankers.” It was strange, hearing someone who spoke in such a snooty, upper-class accent utter any kind of curse word.

“I can walk.” The words came out more confident than she felt. Again, she blinked. Finally, her vision started to focus as she faced her rescuer. She saw a young man in his mid to late twenties: a narrow, thin face with sharp features, pale skin, bright eyes, white-blond hair. Maybe it had been the shock of the gunshot wound, maybe the emergency Apparating. Her mind was muddled. There was something about this person that was just _so_ familiar, so…that was when the pieces clicked into place. The proverbial galleon dropped. Her stomach panged. “ _Malfoy?_ ”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **“Can we leave all the lovely nostalgic reminiscing about the good old Voldemort days for later,** when we’re safe?” He made a face. “As safe as we can be, which isn't much, these days, granted. Still” – Nimbly, he jumped to his feet and held out a gloved hand to her – “time’s money. The fucktards will be after us.”

It wasn’t as if she was going to get any better offer any time soon. He was right: her questions would have to wait to be answered later. She grabbed his hand and let him pull her up. Despite the heavy rucksack on her back, he did so effortlessly. She, however, tottered, lost her balance, and would have crashed, but he grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and steadied her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, embarrassed despite herself. Yes, the reaction was silly, but old habits had an annoying tendency to die hard.

An expression she knew all too well, and that really did evoke a flash of memories, crossed his face: a rather obnoxious smirk.

He said, “Granger, the swooning damsel in distress. Who would’ve thought?”

“Can we go?” Her healed leg was shaky, and her innards were roiling. “Oh, and be warned: I might throw up on you.”

“Charming as ever. Come on.” Unceremoniously, he grabbed her by the elbow and started towing her along through some sort of wood or forest. “And before you ask: no, we can’t Apparate to our safe place. What I did? One in a million chance, and one of the last pockets of magic left in the area. No doubt it’ll no longer be available after the Malleus finds out about my little stunt.”

“How did you even know where I’d be? Was that chance?” Couldn’t be. It had been too specific. Her foot caught on a root or something, and she stumbled, but luckily managed not to fall either on her face or on him.

“No, not chance. We knew you were coming.”

_We?_ Adrenaline shot through her veins. “How’s that possible?” Both the fact that there were even more magical folk alive than her bunch and that these people had known to help her.

“Fireplace. Pansy called.” He snickered and glanced at her over his shoulder. “I never thought I’d be happy to hear that _you_ made it, but I almost danced for joy when she made contact and passed on the good news about your group of survivors. You got twenty people left! Incredible.”

Her stomach had started cramping again. “She _called_ you? Doesn’t she realise that she might’ve revealed the camp’s location to the Malleus?”

“Sh, keep it down!” he snapped, glancing at her again. It was getting colder, and clouds were starting to blot out the stars. “She’s not an idiot and knew you’d never get anywhere near London without help. That’s why she decided to take a risk, and here I am, your knight in shiny armour. You’re welcome.”

Biting down a series of snippy replies, she made herself say, “Thank you. I’d be dead without you.” It was true, too.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I do wish she hadn't risked everyone’s safety for me, though. There’s so few of us left.”

“There’ll be none left if we fail.”

“We?” It was out before she knew it.

“Yes, _we_ ,” he shot back, clearly annoyed. “You may have the know-how, but you absolutely cannot do this alone, so don’t even try. All our lives are at risk. Hell, the entire world is at risk! You may not like me, and I may not like you, but none of that matters right now. So you can either get with the program, or end up getting crushed like a bug. Do you understand?”

Wow. Now, there was some anger breathing through to the surface. Crikey.

“Actually, I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re volunteering, because I would’ve dragged your sorry posterior along with me to the capital, anyway.”

That made him snicker. “You got to admit, it’s a lovely posterior.”

Despite herself, despite everything, she found herself laughing at that. It just bubbled out of her, like a creek breaking through a thick layer of ice. “Thank you, Malfoy – really.”

Right now, it didn’t matter that they’d despised each other during the entirety of their school careers. It didn’t matter that he’d always treated her like dirt due to her blood status, or that she’d regularly shown him up in class on purpose. Right now, they were both magic folk, and they were both fighting for survival.

The bar was low, granted, but all in all, this had been an almost perfect day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets the rest of Malfoy's little group of survivors and reveals her plan to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I introduce something here called 'the amber', which is a concept inspired by the TV show Fringe.

 

**1** **“Where are we, anyway?” Hermione whispered this through clenched teeth.** It was a mix of force of habit and exhaustion. Even with handy healing magic available, jumping down a bridge, getting shot, and Apparating mid-fall wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. That was ignoring the fact that she, like everyone in her group, was fairly starved by now.

“East Sussex. It’s a village called Ninfield.” Malfoy wasn’t dragging her by the elbow anymore, but once or twice after unceremoniously pulling the heavy rucksack from her back and shouldering it, he glanced at her over his shoulder, presumably to see if she was keeping up. It was hard to imagine that in the past decade, he’d learned to give a crap about anyone’s well-being. These trying times made people less empathetic, not more. “We’ll have to walk through the woods a while. Try not to fall on your face.” The radius of pale white light that had been emanating from his wand disappeared, leaving them in near total darkness.

She blinked, squinted, willed her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Why couldn’t nights in the woods be like in the movies, where there was always some undefined source of light illuminating the area? In the real world, darkness _was_ darkness. If not for the stars overhead, they wouldn’t be able to spot their hands if they waved them in front of their eyes. Even with the weather being clear as it was, they could hardly even see that much. Her foot caught on something, and she nearly went sprawling. She suppressed a curse, but spat, “How can you _possibly_ know where you’re going?”

“Internal compass. I was always the best at finding directions in our year, if you care to remember.”

“Is that why Harry always beat you at Quidditch?” It was out before she knew it. Feeling like a total idiot, not to mention a brat, she bit her tongue. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did, but that’s all right. It’s kind of comforting, you know, realising that some things never change.”

The amusement in his tone made her both feel somewhat nostalgic for their Hogwarts salad days and irritated. Over the years, she’d discovered that both emotions were not mutually exclusive. “I never thought that one day, I’d be following you, of all people, into some dark forest.”

The remark elicited a quiet chuckle. “At least life hasn’t got boring. It was what I feared the most after Voldemort snuffed it, if you want to know: a predictable, monotonous existence. I’d get married, have kids, take over Malfoy Manor after my parents died, work, grow old, die – the same cycle repeated generation after generation after generation. Now, I’d kill for boring and predictable. As a matter of fact, I already have. Fat lot of good it’s done me so far.”

This was another thing Hermione hadn't thought would ever happen: she was actually interested in Malfoy’s life story. “I always liked predictable.”

“I know. It’s why you ended up with Weasel.”

She meant to tell him to go screw himself, but before that could happen, she ran right into him. Unfortunately, she hadn't seen that he’d stopped walking a second before. Her forehead connected with the back of his head, and she went sprawling on her behind. “ _Ow!_ ”

“Try to pay a little more attention to your surroundings, will you?” Brusquely, he grabbed her by the armpits and hauled her on her feet. “And what are you even carrying in that rucksack of yours? Your favourite rock collection? The straps are carving dents into my shoulders.”

“Ha, ha. If I had a basement, I’d lock myself in it and laugh.” She wiped wet earth and dead plant matter from her frayed, torn, and bloody jeans. “Could you please just tell me where we’re going, and why we’re supposed to be safe there?”

“Not safe. Safer than out here. Not that any of those freaks make a habit out of frolicking in the woods, but still: there’s a reason we started building houses to live in.”

“My group and I live in tents. You’re lucky to have a house.”

“You’re lucky to still have twenty people in your camp.”

On that, they could definitely agree.

She said, “How many do _you_ have?”

“It’s just me, Daphne, and the Scamanders.” After a couple of seconds, he added, “Luna and Rolf.”

Instead of telling him that she’d figured he didn’t mean Rolf’s grandparents, she said, “It’s funny how old rivalries melt in times like these.”

“Two Slytherins and two Hufflepuffs Apparate into a tavern.”

“At least you haven't lost your…well, shall we say rather peculiar sense of humour.”

“It’s called being snarky.” Again, he stopped walking.

This time, however, there was some light shining through the trees from further ahead, and she didn’t bump into him again. Good. After how this day had turned out, having one embarrassingly clumsy incident was just about as much as she could handle. “Is that a road ahead?”

“Yes. We’ll have to walk right alongside it, behind the tree line. There’s not been many Malleus sightings around here, but we can’t be too careful.”

“Agreed.” Even though she’d started to wheeze a bit, she still sounded more confident than she actually felt. Not only today had been trying, or the past week she’d walked for countless hours at night and slept in abandoned ruins during daytime. The past five years had been slowly eating away at her strength, at her health, and at her capacity to hope. Not that she’d tell Malfoy that. For one thing, she didn’t want to come across as whiny. Also, it wasn’t exactly as if she felt comfortable enough around him to open up about her feelings. Even if she’d ever been in the habit of doing so, she and Malfoy hadn't exactly ever been very civil with each other, let alone friends.

After an eternity of trudging through mud and dead leaves and broken-off branches, following the curvy and sloping avenue to wherever, they finally reached the edge of the woods.

He led her onto a narrow, cracked pathway. “Past three streets down the hill, to the left, and we’re there.” Then, he gave her a doubtful look. “Can you make it, or do you want me to carry you? Because you look like you died twice since I picked you up mid-air.”

Hadn't she once slapped him across the face? Yes, yes she vaguely recalled doing that, but it had been a lifetime ago. “If I’m still standing, I can still walk, and there’s no need to be nasty.”

“No, but it makes me feel better. Come on.” Without waiting for a reply, he started heading down the steep hill, past many still handsome, but mostly dark houses.

It was impossible to tell whether there were still people inside those, but she figured the locals probably just didn’t want to draw any unwanted attention to themselves. Despite her hammering heart, her cramping right leg, and the fact that she was drenched in sweat, she did her best to breathe deeply and to keep up. When they were halfway down the hill, she raised her face, felt a fresh, cool, humid breeze on her face, and…

…could it be?

She squinted, looked down the hill, and then finally saw it: the calm surface of dark water, mirroring the starlight. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her skin erupted in gooseflesh. A knot formed in her throat. Unaware of it, she stopped dead in her tracks. Oh, how could she have forgotten about something as beautiful as this? But she had. She’d forgotten about all the things that were pure and beautiful and untouched, that were unaware of the bleak horror show that the world had turned into. All of a sudden, she felt heavy, so heavy, and as ancient as time. All she wanted was to lie down and sleep and forget about everything – to just let go. It would be such a relief.

Then again, seeing true, natural beauty reminded her that she wasn’t as dead inside as she’d feared, and as painful as that might be, wasn’t this feeling something worth holding onto? Wasn’t it something worth fighting for? She had to admit that the answer was yes.

Her vision grew blurry and she sniffled.

“What…” From about five steps ahead, Malfoy turned and frowned up at her. When he saw her, really saw her, all annoyance melted from his face. He looked thoughtful. “I suppose you haven't seen the ocean in a while.”

Mopping at her eyes, she chuckled lowly. “You suppose correctly.” Then, she made her body move again. “Next street to the left, is it?”

He nodded curtly. “Yes, precisely. Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **He led her to a two-story house that wasn’t ten yards from the pebbly beach.** The white paint was a little cracked, but otherwise, the building – a holiday home if Hermione had ever seen one – was in good condition. Its windows were dark just like all the others, which was a surprise to no-one. After Malfoy knocked some sort of code onto the front door, steps approached from inside. Locks were turned and chains removed.

The door was opened and a round-shaped, yet skinny face framed by frizzy blonde hair peered outside suspiciously.

Immediately, Hermione recognised Daphne Greengrass, Malfoy’s fellow Slytherin and old acolyte. She nearly rolled her eyes at herself. Ten years had gone by, and she still judged her old classmates by the Hogwarts House they’d been in? Seriously.

“Look at what I found,” Malfoy said lowly, but cheerfully, and jabbed a thumb at Hermione.

Daphne’s grey eyes grew wide. Immediately, she stepped aside and opened the door far enough for the new arrivals to squeeze through. She wasted no time locking it behind them again. “It worked. Unbelievable.”

“Of course it worked. I was the one who went to fetch her.”

It seemed as if Hermione wasn’t the only one who hadn't changed much. Swallowing down the sudden flash of annoyance welling up in her at his playful arrogance, she followed him down a narrow corridor, up a winding flight of stairs to the first floor, and into a small, but pretty comfortable living room. There were settees, armchairs, a table on which a candle had been lit, bookshelves, and even a defunct television set in one corner. Her throat constricted at the sight of these creature comforts she’d been forcing herself not to miss for the past year. A second later, she realised that there were two more people: her old friend Luna and Luna’s husband, Rolf Scamander.

“Hermione! I thought I’d only dreamed that you were coming to visit!” Luna lightly jumped to her feet and swept Hermione into a tight hug, which the latter returned hesitantly. Poor Luna was so skinny, she looked even more fragile than she used to back in the day.

“I feel like the entire world has turned into a nightmare.” Gently, she freed herself from the embrace and smiled at Luna. “It’s so good to see you – all of you.”

Rolf, dishevelled, haggard, and sporting a respectable beard, only nodded and smiled. He looked tired and worn out. It was enough to beg the question if this little group really had had more luck than Hermione’s in Wales.

“Another thing she never thought she’d say,” Malfoy remarked, still sounding rather entertained. It was impossible to tell whether the sentiment was in any way genuine. “Daphne, why don’t you go and fetch us something to eat. It’s been a terribly taxing evening.” He plopped himself on one of the armchairs and started pulling his muddy shoes from his feet. After leaning back, closing his eyes for a moment, and rubbing at them with the heels of his hands, he raised his thin eyebrows at Hermione. “Waiting for an invitation, Granger? By all means, sit down.”

Both befuddled and a little irritated, she replied, “I’m going to help Daphne, after you all but ordered her into the kitchen.”

He made a face. “Oh, for crying out loud. Don’t even start.”

“It’s okay,” Daphne said, waving off. “He’s right: you were both out all evening, risking your lives to get here. I don’t mind.” She turned around on her heels and left.

A little hesitant, Hermione took a seat on the settee, next to Luna.

That was when Luna saw the ragged, blood-encrusted hole in Hermione’s jeans. “You’re hurt!”

“No, no. I was shot, but Malfoy healed me. I’m fine.”

Rolf’s bloodshot, brown eyes grew wide. “You used _magic_ on her? _Where?_ ”

“Just outside of Ninfield,” Malfoy replied in the most casual manner, as if it had been no big deal.

Hermione allowed herself to catch her breath, to relax a little, to let her eyes wander. A glass double door led to the balcony she’d seen outside, but the thick curtains had been drawn and fixed to the walls and the floor to keep any light from escaping. Not that that would help any if the Malleus came calling, but it was smart not to draw any attention. “How long have you been hiding here?”

“Since last autumn,” Malfoy said, not looking at her. He had his head leaned back and his eyes closed. “Right after Astoria bit it.” There was a hateful undertone to his voice that was impossible to ignore.

Rolf and Luna exchanged a knowing, somewhat pained look.

Okay. All right. It was better not to poke that particular hornet’s nest. Whatever the story behind it was, it clearly elicited some unwanted emotions. Hermione didn’t think she had any right to pry, but even if she did, that would probably be the stupidest course of action a person could take right now. “Oh,” she said, instead. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re all sorry.” He sat up abruptly. “You can take off your shoes, you know? And after you’ve had some dinner, maybe you can take a bath? Because you kind of stink.”

That little show didn’t fool her. She recognised a diversion tactic when she saw it. Choosing to ignore the clumsy insult, she opened her mouth to say something completely unrelated….and then the sickle dropped. The true meaning of his words sank in. “You have _running water?_ ”

“Central heating, too,” Luna said. “It really helps to not to be freezing when we all get too sad.”

Well, wasn’t that ever so true? Hermione had to admit that she was kind of baffled. She also had to admit that somewhere inside her, there was the unmistakeable sting of jealousy. Her entire camp had been surviving in the harsh outdoors, and here these people were, in a warm, safe house with hot water and central heating. They didn’t have any magic to use, but they were still better off than her bunch, weren't they?

Immediately after that, she felt like the worst person on the planet. How could she be so selfish and petty? These were people who had lost family and friends, who were hanging by a thread, and who had risked themselves to save her life. Seriously.

Discreetly, she cleared her throat, and said, “Thank you for everything you’re doing for me.”

Rolf opened his mouth to reply, but Malfoy was quicker: “Let’s get one thing very clear here, Granger: we’re not doing this for _you_. We’re doing this because we were told you are the last hope we have to kill Nox and his band of wankers, to restore our ability to do magic everywhere we want, and to return the world to normal.”

A heavy, very awkward silence ensued.

Hermione looked at him – really _looked_ at him. He’d always been thin, but like the other members of his group, he was downright emaciated. His short, nearly white-blond hair was still neatly combed, but dry and brittle. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his skin was even more pallid than she remembered. But that wasn’t all. This was one furious person. Most wizards and witches she still had contact with were, by this point, cowed and hopeless, even apathetic, but Malfoy was seething with hatred. This was something she recognised and empathised with all too much. It was better to hate than to despair. Her thoughts almost turned to Ron, but she trampled them down mercilessly. Yes, this was the time to get angry. Angry people still had the energy to fight, and they needed all the energy they could get.

She said, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Good. Then how about you enlighten us about your brilliant plan, Brightest Witch of Her Generation?” He mockingly bowed his head to her.

That was when Daphne returned, two bowls with what looked like porridge in her hands. “It’s condensed milk and oatmeal – not ideal, but it’ll make you feel better.” She handed the bowls to the intended recipients.

“Thank you, Daphne.” Hermione almost added that she was sorry about the loss of Astoria, Daphne’s younger sister, but didn’t. None of them seemed like they wanted any sympathy, and she didn’t want to start a fight. That was the last thing they needed: to fight amongst themselves. They needed each other. They needed each other more than they realised.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **“You all know what happened to the Ministry of Magic, don’t you?”** Hermione had eaten slowly, carefully, so as to not upset her stomach. It had been the best meal she’d had in forever, and now, for the first time in years, she actually felt warm, sated, full, and comfortable. It was weird, to say the least.

The others exchanged slightly confused looks.

“We know that it’s quarantined because Harry blew something up in there,” Luna said, thoughtful. With one hand, she brushed back a strand of her fair hair.

“Something that makes it inaccessible to even Nox,” Rolf added, sounding somewhat awed.

Hermione allowed herself to smile a little. “Actually, that’s not accurate at all. In reality, it was Ginny who blew something up, and it wasn’t any kind of explosive: it was amber.”

“Amber?” Daphne said, frowning.

“Yes. It was a highly experimental spell that could trap living things in it and conserve them, alive, inside a crystalline substance…like amber would a fly.”

“Except the fly would then be dead,” Malfoy said, deadpan. “Why would anyone conjure up such a thing?”

“To conserve plants, mostly. It was hypothesised that humans might be too complex to survive the process, but theoretically, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t.” Hermione raised her hands briefly, signalling the others to remain quiet. “I wasn’t there when the Ministry was overrun, but some of the others from my camp were. They were told to run just before Ginny released the substance into the air, trapping herself and Harry and a bunch of other people in the amber. They barely made it out the building.”

“So?” Malfoy shrugged. “Thank you for the history lesson, but how does any of that help us?”

Hermione sat up straight, hardly able to contain her excitement. “Well, since the Ministry has been conserved in amber for all these years, the Malleus weren't able to kill our ability to do magic in that location. If we can get inside and revert the process, we won’t just be freeing Harry and Ginny and most of our former government; we’ll also be able to cast spells again. This will give us a fighting chance. Besides, Ginny is the only person alive who knows how the amber works. She can help us use it against Nox. We may not be able to kill him, but maybe we’ll be able to trap him. Without him, his cronies won’t be half as invincible as they seem right now.”

Everyone else let her little speech sink in for a while. Outside, the ocean murmured. Wind picked up.

Finally, Malfoy leaned his face into his hands and broke out laughing. As the others stared at him, wide-eyed, he fought to regain his composure. This went on a while.

Icily, Hermione said, “I fail to see what’s so amusing about any of this.”

He dropped his hands to his lap and sneered at her. It was a vicious, bitter, humourless expression. “Are you serious? _Are you?_ ”

Daphne, occupying the armchair to his right, reached out to touch his arm. “Draco, please don’t shout.”

Ignoring her, he kept his eyes trained on Hermione. “Brightest and best of us, indeed! I _risked my life_ to get you here, and you feed us this nonsense of a half-baked plan based on suppositions and maybes? _You don’t know anything!_ ”

“It’s more than suppositions and maybes. I-”

“ _Shut up!_ Don’t you even try to get snooty on me. We’re not at Hogwarts anymore! We’re _fighting for our lives_ , here, and you want us to follow you on this pointless suicide mission that’s based on hope and well wishes?”

“Do you have a better plan?”

“No, but I sure as _hell_ won’t risk giving up the few of us still left alive to those abominations!”

Another heavy, unpleasant silence ensued.

“I like the plan,” Luna said, at length, the picture of calmness. She smiled at everyone in turn. In the dim, flickering candlelight, her blue eyes looked feverish. “It makes me feel something other than crushing despair.”

“I agree. I say we try it,” Rolf said, taking Luna’s hand. When Malfoy glared at him, he shrugged and scratched his neck. “Come on, mate. Hermione’s right. We’ve reached the end of the line. This is all we have.”

“And I know how to revert the amber,” Hermione said, her voice trembling slightly, her hands shaking. As it turned out, she was way too tired to handle a shouting match in her poor physical condition. “This is why I’m here. This is the reason they sent me. We can do this. I _know_ we can.”

“Let’s do it, then,” Daphne said, giving Malfoy an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Draco, but she’s right. We have to risk it. If we don’t, we’re as good as dead, and all our sacrifices will have been for nothing.” In a quiet, almost shy voice, she added, “Astoria will have died for nothing, and I don’t think I could bear it. Could you?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. A subtle flash of colour appeared high up on his cheeks. He balled his hands into fists and got up to his feet. “If you think resorting to sentimentality will make a damn difference, you’re badly mistaken,” he said tonelessly, sounding eerily robotic. “I’ve had enough of the lot of you for tonight. You can all kindly go to hell.” With that, he marched out of the living room and headed up to the second floor.

For a while, nobody said anything.

Finally, though, it was Daphne who broke the silence. “He’ll come around. I know he will.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Hermione said, her previous bout of energy evaporated. Weariness returned with a vengeance. Her body felt as heavy as lead. “Would it be terribly selfish if I asked to take that bath now?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and the others come to a compromise and decide to risk it all to save what's left of the wizarding world. Meanwhile, the captain of the Malleus Deorum sets out to hunt them down and end their existence, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning for mild gore - nothing too graphic, but I'd rather be on the safe side.

**1** **That night, Hermione didn’t just sleep;** it was as if someone had switched off her lights. The house had three bedrooms – one on each floor. The suite with the only double bed was on the top floor; it was occupied by Luna and Rolf. Hermione now shared the two-bed room on the first floor with Daphne, whilst Malfoy slept in the third one on the ground floor. Somewhere in the middle of the night, Hermione woke up suddenly, in a panic, in the dark, completely at a loss. It took her a moment until she realised that she was in a house, in a warm bed, wearing clean clothes. Another number of minutes ticked by until her heartbeat calmed down and she fell into a deep and black sleep she didn’t wake up from until the next day.

When she did finally wake, it was already way into the next morning. As in all rooms, the curtains in hers were drawn and fastened to the walls, but still, some light was coming in. The sun was probably shining. Feeling weirdly guilty about it, she relished the fact that she could lazily stretch and yawn and just linger in bed for a while. The illusion was bound to shatter sooner rather than later, but like this, she could almost pretend that everything had gone back to the way it had been before.

Daphne had already got up and left. They’d let Hermione sleep in. Part of her felt as if she should jump up and energetically insist that they be going to London, but she knew that that would be highly inadvisable. After all, they had some planning to do, and she was in no condition to undertake such a dangerous trip right now. No, she needed to rest at least a day, sleep, eat some more oatmeal and condensed milk, and recover her strength. Being naturally impatient, she couldn’t quite silence the little voice inside her head egging her on, scolding her for her dawdling pace.

It wasn’t always easy, not ever being able to escape her own mind.

At some point, she regretfully forced herself to get out of bed and put on the jeans-and-jumper combination that Luna had handed her the night before. As she twirled her tangled, bushy hair into a messy knot and secured it with an old shoelace, the argument she’d had with Malfoy kept replaying in her head. She’d expected some scepticism, sure, but that amount of outright hostility? To be fair, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know where he was coming from. After all, he’d lost about everyone he ever loved and didn’t want to risk anyone else on a maybe. He even had a bit of a point: it was a lot to risk, and the plan was haphazard and ludicrous.

The problem was, they literally had no other option available to them at the moment. Ever since Nox and the Malleus Deorum had started spreading their influence, much had been tried, and nothing had worked – nothing at all. The only thing that had effected anything had been Ginny’s last act of desperation five years ago. Still, there was no telling whether it had worked and she was still alive – if Harry was still alive. It was a distinct possibility though, as was the theory that inside the Ministry building, magic could still be practiced.

There was, of course, the slight hiccup that was the slim chance of success. The problem with that was, Hermione had only the vaguest idea of what they should do if they managed to free their friends from the amber, if they managed to retake the Ministry. She’d told Malfoy and the others that they would then have to get to Nox and amber his sorry behind, but how to accomplish that? The plan to even get there and use the device she’d assembled was a suicide mission on its best day. Hermione wasn’t a fan of improvisations, but she knew that in a crisis, she was well able to do so.

Malfoy and the others deserved to know every single detail of the plan and every single one of her doubts. Then again, she didn’t want to dissuade them from helping her. After a perfunctory wash, she frowned at her bony and haggard face. No, she wouldn’t keep anything from her new allies. That would be dishonest, and that was the last thing any of them needed. If they then decided to go back on their word, it would be their informed choice that they’d make after having been presented all of the facts.

Determined to make her case as well as she could, she headed down to the ground floor, into the kitchen, where everyone was gathered and conversing in hushed tones. The kitchen opened up onto a tiny backyard that was surrounded by a rather wall. That made it safe to keep the terrace door opened to let in some of the fresh, crisp, clean ocean air. She walked into the kitchen, and all eyes were on her.

“Good morning,” she said, attempting a smile, not sure how inviting it looked. Social protocols were not exactly her forte.

“Morning,” Luna, who was sitting on the threshold leading to the backyard, replied sunnily.

Everyone else was sitting at the oval-ish table. Rolf and Daphne smiled at Hermione, whilst Malfoy just kept glowering down at his hands.

“Grab yourself some breakfast,” Daphne said. “I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Before she got rescued in mid-air,** Hermione had been sure that she’d have to undergo the entire process of getting to London and trying to free everyone caught in the amber at the Ministry by herself. Even though she’d insisted in attempting this and had done her best to trample all her doubts down, she had to now admit that Bill and the others had been completely right: the chances of her getting anywhere near the Ministry with no-one to rely on but herself were pretty much zero. As it turned out, she couldn’t even make it out of Wales without help.

“What I brought here is a device I like to call the concussus,” she explained, looking from one to the next slowly. “It’s a box that emanates a certain range of frequencies designed to make the amber revert to its original gaseous state and then dissipate. I know it works because I could test it on a few fragments back in our camp. The downside is, it only works where magic isn't being suppressed.”

“The only place it’s supposed to work, anyway,” Daphne said, and gave Hermione a tentative smile. “You built this thing yourself? Impressive.”

“Yes, yes, she gets a gold star,” Malfoy said, sounding unbelievably weary, and ran his thin fingers through his hair. He then gave Hermione a hostile look and shrugged. “So what if you can break your little friends out of the amber? It doesn’t change anything. You still want to waltz into London, break into a quarantine zone, and not only get out alive and uncaught, but also as the liberator of whatever remains of the wizarding world. Did you even think _any_ of this through to the end? At all? At any point?”

And there it was: the question she’d hoped against all hope no-one would think to ask – or maybe be too polite to. Something like that. She returned his look squarely. “I did think it through, but as you will have concluded yourself, there are way too many variables we can’t factor into our plans. This is it: make or break. Either we risk everything on the off-chance that we might actually succeed, or we just stick our heads in the sand and wait until our inevitable doom catches up with us. I don’t know about you, _Draco_ , but I’d rather risk and lose than lose anyway.”

Rolf and Luna looked at each other; Daphne looked at her hands.

Malfoy just kept on glowering at Hermione for a couple of seconds, but then it happened: tension drained from his posture. The glare turned into something akin to amusement. He whistled lowly and shook his right hand as if he’d burned it. “How can I say no to such a compelling speech? Did you rehearse it over night? It certainly sounded like it, and I _really_ wouldn’t put that past you. You always were an obnoxious and pedantic know-it-all.”

“Oh, good,” Luna said. “If she already knows everything, then we don’t need anyone else in order to succeed.” It was impossible to tell whether she was joking or not, though Hermione suspected that she sometimes did play up the absent-mindedness card on purpose.

There was no confirming that theory, either. That was always a little irritating, since part of being a know-it-all was wanting to actually know everything. Hermione felt as if a huge weight had just fallen off her shoulders. She ventured a little smile and nodded. “Good. That’s settled, then. Now, can we talk strategy?”

“We can and we must,” Malfoy said, chuckled, and rolled his eyes. “What a strange place the world has become – such a strange place. Here I am – _me_ – plotting to save the world from tyranny with Granger, of all people.”

“’Strange new world that has such creatures in it’,” Hermione quoted. When everyone gave her confused looks, she waved off. “Never mind.”

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **It was a relatively warm day, considering.** Hermione was enjoying the early afternoon sunshine as she sat in the backyard on a wicker chair, the sleeves of her jumper rolled back, her eyes closed, her face raised. The little group had discussed strategy for hours, but hadn't come to a consensus as how exactly to proceed. She didn’t blame the others for their hesitation and their objections; after all, their lives were at stake – _all_ their lives. It was clear that her first plan to give it a go by herself was doomed to miserable failure. No, she definitely needed help. Daphne, Luna, and Rolf all wanted to join the mission, but Malfoy was vehemently against this. His argument was that too many cooks spoiled the broth: the more people went, the greater the risk of capture became. One person had almost zero chance of succeeding, but it still needed to be a covert mission. Therefore, they needed to find a suitable and acceptable compromise.

Hermione hadn't wanted to take his side over that of the others; still, she couldn’t help but agree with him. When Rolf asked her if she’d be willing to send someone in her stead, she’d replied that she was the only one who really knew how to work the concussus. That was true, but the device was easy to operate and she could easily instruct someone else on how to use it. The truth was, it hadn't even occurred to her to send someone in her place. She wouldn’t allow it, in any case. No, this was her mission, and she wasn’t going to delegate, to risk anyone’s life but hers. Of course, if she failed, she’d probably be forced to give up the precise location of all her friends, and that would most likely lead to the end of what remained of the wizarding world. However, if they didn’t attempt this, they’d maybe manage to eke out a meagre living for another few years, but soon enough, they’d be extinct. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

Who would’ve thought, after the whole Voldemort episode, that at some point, wizards and witches would become the hunted instead of the hunters?

From the corner of her eye, she saw someone stepping outside to join her: it was Daphne. She sat down on the wicker chair opposite Hermione, and said, “How do you feel? Rested?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m as good as new thanks to all of you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” She tried to smile, but it felt a little forced. All her life, she’d been terrible at matters of common courtesy and politeness protocols, at faking emotions. Her gratitude was, of course, genuine. The good humour was not.

Daphne either was better at this stuff, or she really did feel like smiling. Then, she looked away. “He wouldn’t want me to do this, but I want to apologise on Draco’s behalf. He’s always had a temper, but ever since my sister died, it’s got worse.” When she locked eyes with Hermione again, there was something like defiance in her face, as if she were daring the other woman to protest. “It’s not like he keeps lashing out at us or anything dramatic like that, but he _is_ angry, and I can relate to it all too well. I just want you to understand why he’s this hesitant.”

“I understand,” Hermione said, meaning it. “I’m angry, too. I believe we all are.”

The remark made Daphne chew on her lower lip and shake her head. “I wish I could get that angry,” she said quietly, then breathed out and waved off. “Never mind me, though. There’s two more things I’d like to say to you, if you’re willing to listen.”

“Of course.”

She nodded. “All right. Well, first, I wanted to apologise for being less than kind to you and your friends during our school days.”

Hermione felt her brows knit together. “You may have been a Slytherin, but you were never nasty to me and the other Gryffindors.”

Daphne made a face. “I was part of Umbridge’s little club, wasn’t I? And only because my grades were dipping and she promised me extra credit. It was a horrendously stupid decision. Needless to say, I’ve regretted it ever since.”

For some reason she didn’t quite understand, herself, Hermione had to snicker. “Oh, that. I’d quite forgotten about it, to be honest. It’s nothing. Don’t beat yourself up over a mistake you made when you were half a child. I remember being quite insufferable, myself.”

“We all were. I think it’s a part of growing up, really.” Daphne ventured another little smile. “So you accept my apology?”

“Only if you accept mine, as well.”

“Yes, naturally.” She started twirling a strand of her honey-blonde hair around her right index finger. “I’ve convinced the others that we shouldn’t all go to the Ministry, and they’ve agreed.”

That was when Hermione realised she’d been keeping her shoulders tensed. “Good. I wouldn’t want to risk-”

“You misunderstand,” Daphne cut in, that defiant expression hardening her features again. “We’re not gonna be sitting here, twiddling our thumbs, hoping for the best whilst waiting for our doom. We’ve got our own odds to defeat.” She waited for protest, but Hermione made herself stay silent. “Luna, Rolf, and I will find a way to destroy the magic suppression system the Malleus have put in place between this place and your camp in Wales. Maybe we can make contact with magic folk in other places, in other countries – you know, pool resources, build something like an organised resistance that won’t make the same mistakes that lead us into this catastrophe, in the first place.”

It wasn’t as Hermione wasn’t aware of the fact that she was bossy and kind of a know-it-all, but sometimes, it was a real chore to not simply pile all the responsibility onto herself. Trying hard not to sound domineering, she replied, “Daphne, this is even less likely to succeed than my plan. Don’t you think that there were a way, others-”

“Oh, _knock it off!_ Stop it with this condescending, patronising I-know-what-is-best-for-everyone nonsense! You are not our Destined Leader, but on the same level as the rest of us. We’re all in this mess together, and we will either succeed together, or die together. You can either start taking us seriously, or you can just leave.”

Taken aback by the intensity of Daphne’s anger, Hermione pressed her lips together.

Daphne took a deep breath and briefly raised her hands. “Sorry. I don’t mean to snap. It’s just that I…I can’t just sit here and rot for another day. I can’t. _I just can’t_. Not after Astoria. Not after everything. I can’t.”

A few awkward seconds ticked by.

Finally, Hermione said, “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. You’re right: I like to imagine myself the brilliant leader of the resistance movement that doesn’t even exist, but it’s all nonsense, like you said. We _are_ in this together, and we shall fight it together.” Again, she tried to make her face do something that would come across as encouraging, even if her whole body was tense and her stomach was roiling. No, she wasn’t any good at relinquishing control, but it wasn’t just that: the mere thought of the last remaining wizards and witches betting their very existence on a maybe – and it was a very huge maybe – made her skin crawl.

Daphne was right, however. Of course she was. They had to start behaving like a team; they also had no more time to lose.

“You have a plan, I suppose?” Hermione said, hoping her words didn’t sound snooty or patronising in any way. Even when she didn’t mean it, this still sometimes happened – old habits and all that.

“Indeed. It’s just as ridiculous and insane as yours,” Daphne said, calm again, even though her voice was still trembling slightly. “Draco didn’t particularly like it, but like I said, he came around. I think his biggest beef is that he won’t be around to order us about.”

Hermione remembered recruiting Malfoy last night, but that had been a spur-of-the-moment thing destined to defuse a tense situation. To be perfectly honest, she’d much rather have any of the others with her, especially Luna. Then again, she could understand perfectly well why Luna and Rolf didn’t want to be separated during what would probably be the last days…

No. No, no, no. None of that. They wouldn’t fail. They wouldn’t die. They’d make it, and that was the end of it. Full stop.

Unbidden, her mind turned to Ron, and the state that she’d left him in. Bill had urged her not to leave, to just stay for another few days, since in his case, a few days meant…

Oh, for crying out loud! She was _not_ going to think about that! Once she started going down that road, she’d never come back again, and none of them could afford it. She hadn't had a choice. She’d had to leave. For the duration of this mission, she’d stay focussed, and then, all would be well again. It had to. Failure was not an option. Therefore, they wouldn’t fail. They wouldn’t. They _wouldn’t_. It was as simple as that; it had to be.

After discreetly clearing her throat whilst pressing her knuckles to her lips, Hermione said, “There’s a plus side to everything. Shall we go in to talk it over with the others?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Daphne gracefully rose to her feet. “First, it’s time for canned tuna and pumpernickel.”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **This past year had marked a new record for lowest amount of rain in Wales –** on all the British Isles, really, but in Wales, it was particularly egregious. Winter was on the horizon, and the crops had been a joke, because it had hardly rained at all during the spring. It had hardly rained at all, period. That made the recently worsened pollution problem even worse. Pollution killed trees. Dead trees couldn’t filter pollutants from the air. The greenhouse effect was exacerbated. It rained less. Crops didn’t grow. People went hungry.

That was a problem – a gigantic, worrisome one – but right now, it wasn’t Josh Lucesco’s problem. He was on a very specific mission, and if he’d ever learned anything from his parents and teachers and the cartoons he’d watched as a child, it was that he needed to do one thing after the other in order to get anything done at all. It was impossible to complete any task competently if one attempted to do everything at once. No, he didn’t want anyone to starve, and yes, climate change was a concern constantly nagging at the back of his mind, but Josh was not a multi-tasker. He liked to think of himself as determined and dedicated. Determination and dedication were, after all, amongst the most valuable qualities in a person. It wasn’t up to anyone into which family they were born, in what physical condition. No-one could make themselves more intelligent, or more talented in certain areas. Those were traits that were inherited. There was nothing anyone could do about it. It was fine, too. Everyone had something to contribute to society in their own way.

What a person could influence, however, was how much effort they put into whatever they set out to accomplish. The clumsiest, least intelligent man could be dedicated and diligent enough to make the best of his abilities. Josh never blamed anyone for being limited in any way. It was lack of discipline and commitment that he sneered at. If he held himself to the highest of standards, then it was only fair if he did the same to those in his employ. This was why it was so frustrating that yet again, he needed to step in and put out the fires that his incompetent underlings had started by allowing a witch to escape.

Finally, after months of fruitless searches, one of those abominations showed their faces, and those ignorant brutes let her _escape_?

It was enough to make Josh feel the need to let Sarah, his most trusted lieutenant, drive their SUV to the bridge leading over the Severn into Wales. He rode shotgun, looking gloomily out the smudgy window without really seeing anything, chewing on the inside of his cheek. This was a bloody catastrophe. How could they have been _so damn stupid?_ Some of them just loved to play the jeering bullies, didn’t they? Sometimes, riding around in Jeeps and intimidating uppity locals served its purpose, but witches and wizards weren't uppity locals. They were dangerous monsters, always out to find loopholes in even the best-covered no-magic areas. Caution and care were always advised when dealing with those things. Of course, the episode had ended in nothing short of a disaster. The witch had escaped, God knew where to. What she was up to, or what damage she could inflict on the world were anybody’s guess.

They’d all gotten so far, ridding the world of most of them in one fell swoop, leaving only small pockets of magic-users scattered across the globe. Those were slowly dying out, fading into nothingness and oblivion – as it should be. There was no way that Josh would allow anyone to screw up now that they were so close to _finally_ freeing the world of the awful plague that was magic.

He and Sarah crossed the bridge at dawn. It was a cool, but sunny day. Due to smog and a recent accident, in which a local factory building had burned to the ground, the sky looked brownish and smudgy instead of clear and blue. The knuckleheads who’d failed to catch or kill the renegade witch were sitting in their Jeep, windows down, smoking, chatting animatedly amongst themselves. Josh felt his teeth gnash together. He took a deep, deep breath, relaxed the muscles in his shoulders, unclenched his fists. When Sarah parked the SUV in front of the Jeep, he was calm and able to smile. Sarah gave him a meaningful look and opened her mouth to no doubt caution restraint, but he was quicker than she was and nimbly jumped out of the car. He adjusted his sunglasses to protect his sensitive eyes against the glare of dawn, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his grey jacket – an old, frayed thing he loved beyond reason or sense of fashion – and ambled toward the Jeep.

The driver, a square-headed mountain of muscles whose name escaped Josh, grinned at the new arrivals. He offered Josh a two-fingered salute against his temple. “Hey, boss.”

Josh slapped his hand against the driver-side door. “Could you gentlemen come out of the car? Please?” He stepped back until the three men had lumbered outside and circumvented the vehicle in order to face their superior officer. “So,” he said, smiling at each of them. None of them inspired much confidence, if he were to be honest. “Who can tell me what happened here last night?”

Behind him, Sarah stood in stoic silence, her usually brown skin flushed darker from whatever displeasure she was keeping to herself. She wasn’t one to waste time with idle chit-chat. She also wasn’t one to share. It made longer expeditions a little taxing from Josh’s point of view, but he’d gotten used to it. Getting used to the weird speech idiosyncrasies of the British had taken even longer.

“Well,” Muscle Mountain said, shrugging, “the little girl jumped off the bridge before we could catch her. Nothing we could do.” He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and spat some phlegm in front of his boots. “Right, lads?” After glancing at the other two morons, who nodded, he grinned at Josh again.

“Nothing you could do, huh?” Josh bit his plump lower lip, looked down at his shoes, and nodded gravely. “Nothing you could do.” He could feel his face getting warmer. Being as white as he was, he flushed easily.

“Yeah, you see,” Muscle Mountain went on merrily, clearly believing the situation to be defused, “we did as told, but how could we know the witch would jump?”

“You couldn’t,” Josh echoed, squinted up at the man, and cracked a toothy smile. “You did as told. Of course. I remember instructing every single one of you to rev your engines and drive up to potential targets hollering and jeering, headlights on, giving yourselves away early enough to allow them to plot escape.”

Muscle Mountain and his goons looked a little confused.

“Frankly, if you’re not gonna use that dead lump you call a brain, I might as well, right?”

Behind Josh, Sarah said, “Lucesco,” but she clearly already knew what was going to happen and wasn’t going to waste her breath on anything but the most perfunctory protest.

“I…what?” Muscle Mountain was frowning.

Josh kept on smiling. “Thought so.” Without warning, he lunged forward, grabbed Muscle Mountain by his neck and collar, and smashed his head against the side of the car with all his might. The result was a sickening crunch.

Muscle Mountain uttered a gurgling groan and went down into the dirt, twitching and convulsing. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth and the laceration on his smooth forehead. He vomited a fountain of half-digested coffee.

The other two mooks just stared, paralysed.

“ _You fucking idiot!_ ” Josh’s blood was boiling. He was wired, all muscles taut, his teeth clenched, his fingernails biting into his palms hard enough to draw blood. Once he started, he couldn’t stop himself; the whole world got drowned in red until he managed to excise the rage. He kicked the man on the ground until the man stopped twitching.

When Josh was done, he was drenched in sweat and blood and brains. He was panting. His heart was racing. He felt so, so light, so grounded, so centred in his own body. Standing up straight, he took a deep, tremulous breath, sighed, and smiled at the other two morons. “You two got anything to object?”

Both goons stared at him out of huge eyes. They were pale and seemed to have shrunken in on themselves.

Josh wiped a strand of his blood-drenched, dirty-blond hair from his forehead and smiled. This time, it felt genuine. “Next time, you follow protocol to the letter, and if you’re unsure what the protocol _is_ , you call the nearest outpost and educate yourselves. Is that understood?” There were nods all around. “Good, good. I’m glad to have been of help.” He motioned at the corpse, added, “Take care of that, will you?” and ambled back to the SUV. “Got a handkerchief for me, Sarah?”

“You have brains in your hair,” she said, deadpan, and retook her seat behind the steering wheel.

He jumped onto the passenger’s seat, slammed the door shut, rolled the window down, and enjoyed the cool breeze as Sarah took them across the bridge, back into England. It was always good to start a day productively. They’d taken care of this little mess quickly and efficiency. The men would not commit the same mistake ever again. Actions always had consequences, and even though Josh knew that he sometimes overreacted, he knew that his subordinates respected him because he was utterly fair. Under his leadership, stupidity was rooted out, intelligence rewarded.

They were driving toward the rising sun. He raised his face, closed his eyes, and smiled. Yes, the foot soldiers had failed, but that wasn’t so bad. At least now, they were getting close to finally locating the remaining pockets of magical folk and eradicating them from the face of this beautiful, green earth. Josh himself felt new determination build up inside him. Better than simply being forced administrate and put out the occasional fire, he now had a mission, a single goal on which to train his mind. In short, Josh was happy. He had a witch to hunt.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and the others try to find a way to sneak into London without being caught. In Wales, Pansy Parkinson works on her own plans to fire up resistance against the enemy. In London, Malleus Deorum captain Josh Lucesco sets a trap for the renegade witches.

**1** **“How will we even get into London?” Rolf said, frowning,** looking from Hermione to Malfoy and back again.

It was evening again, and they’d once again gathered in the living room. They’d spent the entire afternoon talking their plans through, and even though this kind of thing was always tiring work, it was a million times better than just sitting around helplessly, in fear. That was something they all could agree on. As for the rest, they’d had to reach an uncomfortable compromise no-one was really happy with, but that was how a democracy worked. All of them would go to the capital, but they’d split up into teams once they’d reached the Ministry; each team would then have their own task to fulfil.

All of them had drawn the short straw, so to speak. Hermione and Malfoy would use the concussus to free the trapped wizards and witches, the most important of them being Ginny Weasley; she had the knowhow needed to utilise the amber on their greatest enemy. Luna, Rolf, and Daphne would then head into the Ministry of Magic Research Committee’s offices. Their mission was just as important for very specific reasons: not only had that Committee investigated growing Muggle suspicions about magic, but also the rising Malleus Deorum movement, whose sole purpose was to raise awareness about magic amongst the Muggle population and then eradicate it. Back in the day, hardly anyone had taken this small group of loud fanatics seriously, until one day, it had been too late. The Committee had, after things had taken a turn for the worse and more and more areas had been subjected to some form of magic suppression, started research on how to reverse this process, on how to re-establish communications and transportations with other locations.

The last announcement to leave the Ministry, five years ago, had been about a major research breakthrough. There was little reason to doubt the veracity of the announcement, since Ginny had, by that point, served as head of the Committee. The plan now was to get Luna, Rolf, and Daphne into the respective offices, so they could gather what documents they could find. Since time was of the essence, it made sense to not only learn how to quickly get rid of the magic suppression system, but also to re-establish communications with other magical communities that might have survived. The sooner wizards and witches were able to cast spells again, the better. The Malleus would have their hands full, and Hermione and the others would then be able to focus on getting to Nox and eliminating him. Once he was incapacitated or dead, victory wouldn’t exactly be easy to achieve, but it wouldn’t be impossible anymore.

It was a suicide mission on its best day, yes, but now, at least they had a plan that consisted of more than just running, hiding, and being terrified.

“We can’t just take the train into the city,” Daphne said, frowning, twirling a strand of her hair around her right index finger. “The magic detectors would sniff us out before we even reached Eastbourne. We wouldn’t be the first ones to risk it and fail.” Nobody knew how this detection system worked, but it worked with frightening efficiency.

“We’ll have to drive,” Hermione said, leaning back against the sofa’s backrest and rubbing at her forehead. “We’ll take a car and risk it. Controls on the roads are sporadic, so it’s not as certain we’ll be caught if we go that way.”

“Not as certain is not exactly encouraging,” Rolf said. He exchanged a look with Luna, who only shrugged. “And how do we even get a car? Do we rent one? That would require documentation none of us has. Do we steal one? That would get the Muggle authorities on our trail. We can’t drive. We can’t walk, either, since that would take too long. Also, they’ll have raised security ever since they failed to catch you, Hermione.” He gloomily shook his head. “Everything’s so hard these days. It’s like the mountain we have to climb keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

That was when Malfoy, who’d been quiet for the past half hour or so, straightened his posture, and said, “Do you want to do this or not?” He threw up his hands, clearly exasperated. “Good _God!_ _Stop whining!_ We made the decision to go through with this ludicrous mission, didn’t we? It’s time to stop whingeing and come up with practical solutions, not more excuses! I’m sick and tired of finding reasons why we have to keep holed up in here, trembling in terror!”

Rolf glared at him. “That’s what I was doing, and you’re not helping.”

Malfoy jabbed a finger at his own chest. He gave Rolf an incredulous look. “ _I’m_ not helping? I’m not the one sitting there and yammering on about how hard it all is, am I? Oh, woe is you, Scamander! Everything is so difficult! Boo fucking hoo. Grow up and either contribute, or stop getting on everybody’s nerves.”

“Maybe you have a bit of a point,” Hermione said flatly, “but that tone of yours isn't exactly ingratiating you to anyone. Try to tone it down a notch, will you? Honestly.”

He crossed his arms and snorted. “Well, if candour is offensive to your sensibilities, sweetheart, then maybe we should just all go back to la-la land and pretend everything is rainbows and fairy dust. Who knows? Maybe it’ll all go away if we just wish for it hard enough!”

“We’ve already tried that, remember?” Luna said. “The result wasn’t exactly what we hoped for.”

Malfoy just shot her an irritated look, but thankfully kept quiet.

“I have an alternative to either renting or stealing a Muggle vehicle none of us knows how to drive, anyway,” Daphne said, drawing everyone’s attention to herself. “It’ll be dangerous, but I think the risk is worth it.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **It had been what…a week? A week and a half since Granger set out of camp to undertake her ludicrously hopeless trip to London?** She’d insisted that this was the only way, that this plan of hers was the last resort, that they might as well AK each other if they didn’t risk it all on this one insane scheme. She’d also insisted that she go alone, as she didn’t want to risk any lives other than her own. Most of the others hadn't agreed with her on that one, but by that point, everyone was so tired, so worn out, so done for, they didn’t feel like arguing anymore. It probably didn’t matter much, anyway. Even their little pocket of magic at the Afon Hepste was beginning to fail them. If the wizards and witches lost their ability to cast spells, to brew potions, and to charm objects, then they really might as well lay down and die.

A few days after Granger the Messiah sauntered out of camp to go on her great adventure or whatever the hell one might want to call it, a realisation hit Pansy Parkinson square in the face: they’d already given up – everyone but Granger, which was annoying all on its own. The woman might have some delusions of grandeur where her own competence was concerned, but at least she’d gone out to do something, to do _anything_. Meanwhile, the rest of the pitiful gang just sat around moping, Pansy included. Bill Weasley and his French wife did nothing except tend to his dying little brother. Parvati Patil and a bunch of her Gryffindor friends huddled together and wouldn’t stop babbling about the good old Hogwarts days.

As for Pansy? With disgust, she had to admit that she was no better. She sat around, too, took gloomy and lonesome walks, felt sorry for herself. Sometimes, she’d join the others and listened to them whine, but that always started getting on her nerves very quickly. The problem wasn’t, as she came to realise, that everyone else annoyed her. The problem was that she couldn’t stand to be reminded that she too was mourning, that she too had lost people and property and happiness and hope. This was no life. They couldn’t just stay here, camping in the woods, waiting for the Muggle shitheads who now ran the show to find and kill them. It was pathetic. At least Granger, as much as Pansy might dislike her, had never given up. Granger had run experiments, had come up with hypotheses, had worked tirelessly for years. She’d got off her butt and _done_ something. Okay, she was probably dead or captured by now, but for crying out loud, at least she hadn't just waited for her time to run out.

Pansy then decided that she couldn’t spend another moment just moping around like an overgrown baby. She needed to take action. Doing anything these days equalled taking an enormous risk, but Granger had annoyingly been right about that, too: either they risked it all and maybe got to win, or they’d already lost everything. Besides, the risk she wanted to take was no bigger than Granger’s. There was no need to tell anyone else until she could report some kind of success. Therefore, she just went on one of her usual long walks, found a suitably isolated spot, took the right precautions to prevent a forest fire and too much smoke, and then lit an improvised fireplace.

About a year ago, when they’d still been in Merthyr Tydfil, she’d been in contact with an old friend, her cherished former classmate Draco Malfoy. He, his wife, his sister-in-law, his parents, and a few others had had to leave Wiltshire behind and had taken refuge in a small East Sussex coastal town. After the flight from Merthyr Tydfil, nobody had dared to try reaching anyone via magical means of communication, for fear of being discovered. The fear was entirely justified, yes, but now, the metaphorical die had been cast, hadn't it? Granger was, if she was lucky and able to stick to her schedule, traipsing merrily through Wales and almost upon the Severn. She’d never get across the bridge, though. She’d never get anywhere near London – not without help.

Kneeling by her pathetic excuse for a camp fire, Pansy hoped to God that Draco and his family were still alive, were still in East Sussex, were still able to perform magic. When she was almost about to give up, her brown hair drenched in sweat and plastered to her skull, her face hot and sooty, a face appeared in the flames. Pansy managed to suppress a triumphant cry, but she did utter something between a laugh and a sharp exhale as she beamed at the drawn and haggard face of Draco Malfoy.

He, in turn, arched his eyebrows. “ _Pansy?_ ”

She slapped her calloused hands to her mouth and shook her head in incredulity. Then, she reminded herself that they didn’t exactly have the luxury to be gobsmacked. “Draco, I _cannot_ put into words how wonderful it is to see you! You can still do magic where you’re at?”

“Barely, and using the fireplace makes my companions twitchy, so let’s keep it brief.” He smiled. It was such a welcome sight. “How many of your group are still alive?”

“Twenty. What about you?”

For a brief moment, surprise showed on his face, but he quickly hid it again behind an unreadable mask. “Four.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Who-”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m assuming you’re calling for a specific reason?”

All right, then. If he didn’t want to talk about it, then she wouldn’t pry. “Yes. One of our intrepid survivors is Hermione Granger, and” – She briefly interrupted herself to snicker when he rolled his eyes at the name – “yeah, I know. She hasn’t got any better, in case you’re wondering. Anyway, she’s on her way from Wales to England and should be attempting to cross the Severn today, probably early tonight.”

His expression grew pained. “She’ll never make it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. Is it too much to ask if you-”

“If I could go risk my life to save Granger’s? When do I leave?”

Pansy made a face. “Draco, I seriously would not be calling if it weren't important. You can trust me when I tell you that all our lives might be at stake, and no, I’m not being overly dramatic.”

“You never were the type,” he said, smiling a little again. “And I do trust you. Of course I trust you.”

She was never going to admit that to him, but hearing him say this made her almost feel like crying. They’d been such good friends back in the day, hadn't they? So much time had gone by, and so much shit had happened, she’d almost forgotten about it. “Thank you. Now, I don’t want you to risk yourself unnecessarily-”

“I’ll go, and yes, I know how to look out for anyone crossing the damn bridge. I have a trick or two up my sleeve that might surprise even Miss Brightest Witch of Her Generation.” Again, he rolled his eyes.

Again, she snickered. “I wish you were here – seriously, I do. You’d really bring some life to this sorry bunch.”

“Naturally. Who wouldn’t want _me_ around?”

“I couldn’t think of anyone worthwhile.” She smirked at him. “Thank you, Draco, and good luck.”

“I won’t need it,” he replied, and ended the spell.

For another few seconds, she just kept looking into the crackling flames, before she put them out, washed her face and hands in a nearby stream, and headed back to the camp. At least now they had a fighting chance. All she needed to do was convince everyone else to get their act together and forget to be paralysed by their own fears.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Being the highest-ranking field officer of the British government’s peace-keeping organisation,** Josh was pretty much entitled to any place to live anywhere in London. Most other officers of similar rank or government officials had flats in Central London and maybe some fancy country home where they could spend their holidays and unwind from the gruelling work that was keeping the United Kingdom – and, by extension, everything else – running. Josh, however, didn’t believe that he should possess several houses or flats or whatever. No, he was perfectly happy to drive through the numerous security zones that led from his mother’s family home in Ealing to the Palace of Westminster, if that was where he needed to be. Mostly, he was on the road, anyway, with Sarah, putting out fires and trying to root out monsters. Even though he hardly had time to be home, it felt a little weird to get back to the big, stately (empty, lonely) house his mom had grown up in, the house that had been her home until she’d met Josh’s father at university and moved with him to Auburn Hills in Michigan.

Josh himself had done a large part of his growing up in small condos and rental homes. His parents had often switched jobs and moved around, mostly in the Midwest, but not exclusively. When people would ask him about his childhood and youth, he’d tell them that he spent about half his life in a car, listening to music cassettes on his Walkman, looking out the window, lost in thought. Oftentimes, people would then express their sympathies, and he’d have to explain that he didn’t mean to complain. No, his childhood had been a happy one, and he enjoyed thinking back on it.

Nostalgia was a powerful thing.

His whole body felt heavy as lead as he stepped over the house’s threshold and into the lobby. After kicking off his boots, he immediately headed upstairs into the master suite (or however the British called it), dropped his bag on the bed, and lurched into the bathroom to take a long, scalding shower. It had been a good day despite the fuck-up of those brain-dead goons in Wales. After he lost his temper, Josh often wondered whether he’d overreacted, but he was pretty certain that in this case, he’d done what had been necessary. After all, Mister Clean over there had been incompetent, lazy, and stupid, and he’d been a particularly bad influence on the other soldiers. It had been right to make an example out of him. Fortunately, most soldiers weren't as dumb as that one, but once in a while, a functional idiot slipped through the cracks and faked it well enough during the recruitment and training stages to be admitted into the Malleus.

If there was one thing Josh hated more than witches, it was bullies.

He didn’t often talk about this to anyone, especially not Sarah, who then liked to point out that his anger management issues were just as bad. It was just another topic they had to agree to disagree on, because neither was fond of arguing with the other. He respected her opinion because she had a brilliant mind and never lost her cool, but she lacked passion and, as he felt, heart. She was a bit like a Terminator that way: smart, calm, collected, and frighteningly efficient. Those were qualities to be admired, and she and Josh complemented each other well, but there were things she simply did not comprehend. Yes, he had problems keeping his rage in check, sure. She, however, couldn’t fathom how much more damaging certain types of behaviour were. It would not do for soldiers to bully and intimidate civilians just because they thought it was fun, because it made them feel powerful.

Power was an instrument, not a goal in and of itself. It shouldn’t be abused, and it should definitely not be used in order to discriminate and mistreat. Josh himself held a considerable amount of power in his hands, but it wasn’t something he lusted after. What he wanted was to use it in order to make the world a better place. He needed it so he could help his boss rid the world of the evils of magic once and for all. After that had been accomplished, they’d be able to focus on ridding humanity of all its other problems. Humanity was going through a tough time, but they’d all emerge victorious after collectively groping their way through the dark, cold tunnel of progress. In the end, even the malcontents would be grateful. That was what power was really for: to shape the world into something better, something grander, something stronger. Everything else was just foolish, which, in his opinion, included wasting resources such as Central London flats and country estates on a few greedy assholes. If it were up to him, he’d blow all their brains out and toss them into a shallow grave. Parasites. He loathed those almost as much as he loathed bullies.  

As usual, he got dressed in his downtime clothes – jeans and t-shirt – without looking at the thick, ragged, pinkish scars on his chest. It wasn’t because they were in any way disfiguring that he didn’t like to look at them, but because of what they reminded him of: the worst day of his life. It never did anybody any good to dwell on painful memories, because those were paralysing and dragged a person down. Also, he couldn’t help but feel disgusted with himself every time he indulged a bout of self-pity. Everyone had a past. Everyone had suffered loss. Everyone had pain. He was no different, and he certainly wasn’t special. Still, he couldn’t help but at least be reminded that this past existed every time he took off his damn fucking shirt. Nox himself had told Josh that there were ways the latter could get rid of those scars, but Josh had refused. The scars only bothered him a bit during certain kinds of weather, but mostly, he just kind of forgot they were even there. There was no need to waste resources on such a triviality, and there was no need for drama.

Thinking about his boss lifted his spirits again as he headed downstairs into the humungous kitchen (his mother had loved) to get himself something to eat. For many months, no-one had even seen a witch or a wizard, but those things were still out there, wreaking all kinds of havoc. In other countries, there’d been a number of terrorist attacks committed by sorcerers, as there were always holes in the global net of magic suppression. The wizarding menace was hard enough to contain in Britain, but ever since the Malleus had expanded their influence over most civilised parts of the globe, it had become harder and harder to root out and capture the enemy.

Now, a witch had been sighted, trying to cross the Severn into England. She’d gotten away, yes, but the fact that she’d risked being caught at all showed how desperate she had to be. Also, it wasn’t too hard to conjecture that she’d try to get into London, in all probability to try to free the ones of her kind that were trapped in that amber-like substance. That was a good thing. Josh surmised that if the witch was willing to undergo such a huge risk, then she must know how to break people out of the amber. That in turn meant access to the Ministry of Magic.

Already, he’d ordered the patrols increased and security tightened. Tomorrow morning, he’d talk to Nox in person, tell him about his plan to catch the witch and make her tell him all she knew about those who were still in hiding. All he needed to do, really, was to set a trap and wait until the witch sprang it. Then, they’d be one step closer to final victory, and after that, humanity would finally know peace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and company get ready to risk it all in order to save the wizarding world. Pansy tries to shake her fellow camp dwellers out of their lethargy. Josh meets up with Nox.

 

**1** **After Daphne made her suggestion, everyone was just quiet for a moment.** At some point, when a couple of minutes or so had passed, Rolf opened his mouth to say something, but pressed his lips together again without uttering a word. He probably wanted to avoid another dressing down by Malfoy, which was understandable. Hermione herself was unsure of how to react because she had no idea what to _think_. Oh, she knew exactly how she _felt_ about the suggestion: it was completely insane, and if they chose to go through with it, then this safe haven would be lost to them for good. The problem was, they had so little choice. Every other option was even less likely to succeed. That was how desperate their situation had become. However, this didn’t mean Hermione had turned into a reckless daredevil that would gladly run screaming into doom, just because alternatives were scarce.

_This is crazy_ , she wanted to say to the others. _There_ _are_ _way_ _too_ _many_ _variables_ _we can't possibly_ _anticipate_. _If_ _even_ _the_ _slightest_ _thing_ _goes_ _wrong_ , _we_ ' _re_ _dead_. _There_ _has_ _to_ _be_ _a_ _better_ _way_ _to_ _do_ _this_.

There wasn't. This was it: make or break. Either this worked, or they were all finished.

She had to admit, mortal danger or no mortal danger, breaking every rule like this, being a rebel was strangely exhilarating. Gathering up all the courage she had, she decided to take the plunge, and said, "It's the best plan we've got. Great thinking, Daphne."

Daphne answered by nodding once and curving up the corners of her mouth in a grim little smile.

"It's almost as good as flying on thestrals," Luna said, as her husband only gave her hand a squeeze. When another small silence ensued, she looked at each of the others in turn, an encouraging and friendly expression on her face. "Don't worry, everyone. This is a good plan. It'll work. Can't you feel the change in the air? It means something important is about to happen."

"That's just the wrackspurts talking," Malfoy said dryly, but not in an overly hostile tone. Was this progress? Who knew. He pressed his lips together, scratched the bridge of his nose, and nodded. "All right, then. Since everybody is in agreement, we can finally stop debating minutiae. We leave early tomorrow." Slowly, he pushed himself up to his feet and tugged down on his black jacket. In fact, his entire wardrobe seemed to consist of nothing but black suits, shirts, etcetera.

This was something Hermione couldn't help but find a little bit funny: the world as they knew it might be about to end, and here was Draco Malfoy, caring about looking cool. Then again, maybe he didn't have anything except clinging onto his own sense of civilisation. That was also a distinct possibility.

Hm. The world as they knew it might be about to end, and here was Hermione Granger, automatically assuming the worst about Malfoy just because they disliked each other. Wow. This was not good.

Back at the camp, Pansy Parkinson had once angrily told Hermione that the latter loved to lord her liberal world-views over the Slytherins while being just as judgmental as any Pureblood advocate.

Hermione had brushed this accusation aside irritably and said that Pansy was hardly in any position to call her names.

Pansy had argued that that was the point: neither of them had the right to judge the other.

Now, Hermione found herself agreeing with everything the other woman had said. She, Hermione, really had judgmental tendencies, which she'd always excused by telling herself that she was on the side of good. It was strange how a horrible cataclysm could finally cause a person to self-reflect. Better late than never, though, right? Everything had a bright side. At least that was what her parents had always taught her.

Thinking about them wasn't exactly a bright idea right now...just as thinking about Ron.

Ignoring her dry mouth, constricting throat, and knotting innards, she said, "Good night, then."

"Right." Without another word, Malfoy marched off.

The others stayed where they were for a little longer, in contemplative silence. There was nothing more to say. Tomorrow, everything would change.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **"You shouldn't have done this without consulting us, first,"** Bill Weasley chided. He was probably trying to sound angry, but really, all he came across as was utterly exhausted.

They were huddled inside what Pansy liked to call the Weasley Tent: Pansy, the eponymous Weasleys (what was left of them), and Parvati Patil. They were what passed for wizarding leadership these days, as it turned out. It was to either weep or giggle hysterically. This unofficial council of the elders or whatever convened, as usual, in the tent's living room. They were all sitting on two frayed sofas that faced each other. In the other room, Bill's little brother and Pansy's erstwhile classmate lay dying.

Knowing that only a few feet away from her, someone she'd once delighted in making fun of was about to bite the dust made Pansy's skin crawl - not because she cared oh so much about the dullard Draco used to call The Weasel, but because this happenstance was a constant reminder that their old world was dead and gone. Pansy already felt sorry for herself often enough. She didn't need to be constantly reminded of the tragedy of it all. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know how self-centred this train of thought was; she just didn’t think she could stand to let any of this affect her.

In all honesty, she believed that it would be kinder to end Ronald Weasley's suffering once and for all instead of letting him slowly rot from the inside out, but his family didn't want to hear it. They still had hope. This was almost funny, considering their squeamish behaviour in face of Pansy's initiative.

She leaned back, crossed her arms, shrugged, and countered, "I did what had to be done. I'm a pragmatist and refuse to romanticise our predicament. Granger's blue-eyed mission zeal is all fine and dandy, but we all knew, deep down, that she'd never make it across the Severn. Thanks to my idea and Draco's bravery, she's still alive."

It was Parvati who said, "You don't know that. You risked our exposure on a _hunch_."

"If it hadn't worked, Draco would've called."

"Not if he's dead," Bill said, a pained expression on his drawn, ashen face.

"No. There were others. They would've-"

"If they got caught, _we're as good as dead_!" Fleur snapped, throwing up her hands. Well, at least her English had improved a lot over the past few years. Little blessings and all that crap.

Pansy stared at her, incredulous. " _Are you serious?_ We're as good as dead, anyway! Wake up, _all of you!_ Do you _want_ to spend the rest of your days sitting here, huddled in terror, your thumbs up your arses? We have to do _something! Anything!_ And if it kills us, at least we'll go down fighting!" Her face was hot, her hands cold and trembling, her heart thundering. She felt a little ill. It took all her willpower not to jump up and slap every single one of them across their stupid faces.

"Please don't shout," Bill said softly. "Ron-"

"Is beyond good and evil and doesn't give a fuck about volume."

A horribly awkward silence ensued.

"That was a very ugly thing you just said," Fleur replied in a quiet, trembling voice. Her eyes were huge in her skinny face and brimming with tears. She was clearly at the end of the rope; they all were.

Although Pansy's ire didn't exactly evaporate - she wasn't the type to calm down quickly - she had to admit to herself that her remark had been insensitive and out of line. That was a problem: when she got mad, all she wanted was to lash out, because that was the only way to relieve the pressure. It wasn't pretty, but it was the truth. She took a deep breath and pressed the heels of her hands to her sore eyes. "I'm sorry." She was still too worked up to really feel it, but she knew that once her blood cooled down, she'd probably regret being mean to the grieving family of a dying man. "Just...just _listen_ to me: I know how difficult it all is. I know that doing anything might rob us of what little time we still have left. But we have to risk it; we _have_ to. It's either risking death or dying anyway. You all know this." She faced each of the others in turn. "We either risk it all, or we'll end up dying out. Granger made the start. Let's do our best to make sure she succeeds. I for one am done sitting around, wallowing in self-pity."

Another little silence ensued, but this time, it was contemplative rather than uncomfortable.

It was Parvati who spoke first: "I agree. I don't know about the rest of you" - She looked about, locking eyes with her friends, one by one - "but I'm sick of hiding and I'm sick of being afraid."

"All well and good," Bill said, after exchanging a meaningful look with his wife, "but do you have anything in terms of a viable plan? Anything even remotely feasible? Because everything we tried in the past has failed miserably."

Pansy didn't even try to hide her smile. "I have an idea, and yes, it's insane, but you'll agree to it, anyway. As Granger once quoted some Muggle or other: fortune favours the bold."

 

* * *

 

 

**3 Early** **the** **next** **morning** , **Josh** **got** **the** **call** **to** **meet** **up** **with** **Nox** **to** , as Bob the P.A. had put it, 'have a lovely little chat and talk stuff over'. Yeah, he spoke like that; he spoke like that a lot. Josh, who'd always been an avid reader of old, pulpy sci-fi novels (most of them inherited from his dad), couldn't help but feel reminded of what he liked to label affably evil villains - the type to be almost sickeningly well-mannered but also over-the-top evil. He knew how ridiculous the comparison was, since P.A. Bob was just bubbly and nice, but ideas were like parasites and impossible to get rid of once they took root in a person's mind.

As Josh was sitting in his personal vehicle - a Mini - waiting to be waved through the last security checkpoint leading into Central London, he couldn't help but wonder if that was what the witches and wizards that had been caught thought of Nox, himself. From their perspective, it would make total sense: they'd get to know the man's charming personality, but also his resolve and determination. Of course those freaks would think of him as the enemy. It was completely logical. The difference was, other than the moustache-twirling evil overlords of Josh's cherished childhood novels (and hadn't his dad always held the funniest dramatic readings of those?), Nox was not a villain: he was the liberator of the human race. Only something inhuman would disagree, and that was what sorcerers were. They weren't even people. They were unnatural. They were a threat. One only had to look back ten years to be reminded of how deadly those things could be.

He gnashed his teeth together. The scars on his chest itched a little. Damn it. Why did he always have to start thinking about _that_? It helped no-one and just made him feel incredibly selfish. Other people had been hit so much worse.

When he reached the checkpoint and saw that Maisie Huang was the officer in charge, he pushed down these disconcerting ruminations, rolled down the window, and cracked a smile at her. "Hey, there! Why're you looking so chipper on this foggy morning? Don't tell me it's because you already managed to make your underlings cry."

She stepped up to his car and returned the expression. It was a captivating sight. Maisie had something trustworthy, warm, and sympathetic about her that made it very easy to like her – not to mention the fact that she was one of the most competent officers he knew. Very noticeably, she now wore her previously long, dark and straight hair cropped short. It suited her. Good-naturedly, she replied, "Hey, Yank. No, no, I haven't been mean to the other children at all." When he gave her a mockingly incredulous look, she laughed. "I mean it! No, I'm just happy because my holiday came through."

It took about three seconds until he remembered. He snapped his fingers, and said, "Right. You have family in Scotland. I bet they're counting the days."

"That they are. With a little luck, they'll be allowed to move here soon."

"I'll put in a good word for you."

She nodded. "That'd be great."

He touched two fingers against his temple in a lazy salute and drove through the opened gate. This gate and a few others that led to the heart of the city could only be used by inner circle personnel, but even these passages were heavily protected against magic users. One could never be too careful.

Not ten minutes later, after leaving his car (his British colleagues liked to call it the Tourist Mobile, which was admittedly pretty funny to him) at a parking garage reserved for government employees, he was walking at a brisk pace toward today's meeting place. P.A. Bob regularly despaired over his boss's outdoorsy tendencies, but Josh approved of the fact that personal talks with the chief almost always happened at some scenic location.

He spotted him sitting on a bench by the Thames, not five minutes away from the Palace of Westminster. "Good morning."

Nox seemed to wake up from deep concentration. He looked up at the newcomer, recognised him, and smiled warmly. The chilly breeze had dishevelled his already messy mop of dark hair even more. His rather round-shaped face and big blue eyes belied his age; he seemed thirty rather than forty-something. "Joshua. You look rested. Please, have a seat." He motioned at the spot to his left.

Josh followed suit. "Thanks. I do feel rested. So" - He pressed his knuckles to his lips and cleared his throat - "I suppose you already got Sarah's version of events?" It was cold, wasn't it? Cold and clammy. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his old, ratty jacket. Goosebumps erupted all over his skin. Wistful, he thought back on the couple of years he and his parents had lived in New Mexico. The heat had been lovely - the sunburns not so much.

"I talked to her yesterday." Nox lightly nudged Josh in the side with his elbow. "A witch, eh? That's nothing short of amazing, given the way things are going."

Just thinking about those knuckleheads in Wales made his blood boil again. He balled his hands into fists and snorted with derision. "They revved their engines and drove at her shooting and hollering like a bunch of morons. We could've had her. But no. Now, we need to draw her out."

"No hunt this time?"

Josh shook his head. "Not necessary. She'll come to us. She won't have a choice."

"Oh?"

"Call it a hunch, but I'm pretty sure that none of those darned things would risk crossing into England via the most dangerous route if not out of desperation. They're planning something, and my guess is, it involves the Ministry of Magic."

"That's a lot of guesses, you know," Nox said. It was impossible to tell whether he was merely doubtful or outright disapproving. Maybe this was a test, too. He did enjoy his little games.

"I realise that, man; it's just that I know how they think. They spent the past year licking their wounds, regrouping, trying to come up with a way to defeat us. If any of them is willing to risk getting caught, it's because they believe they have a shot at winning." After a little pause, he added, almost defiantly, "It's the theory that makes the most sense to me. You might feel different, but that's how I see it."

A little pause ensued. On the rather choppy waters of the Thames, a heavy-looking freight vessel plotted by. On the promenade, a group of uniformed teenagers hurried past them toward the Palace of Westminster, speaking something like Swedish or Norwegian (Josh was woefully ignorant of foreign languages and knew that it only added to the cliché, but he didn't care much). Farther behind them, overhead speakers announced the newest rules of conduct to the populace.

"It _is_ the theory that makes the most sense," Nox finally said, thoughtful. He half-turned in order to be better able to look at his subordinate. "And yes, you do know how they think."

Josh eyed him suspiciously. The wind was coming from down the river. Among the scents of somewhat polluted water, exhaust fumes, and dead leaves, he could clearly smell Nox's crisp and fresh aftershave. It was a smell that brought back a lot of memories of Josh's dad, both wonderful and saddening.

"But nothing. You are right, and I put all my faith in you," Nox said. Something in Josh's expression must have shown his bafflement, because Nox laughed softly and then brushed a strand of the former's dirty-blond hair out of his forehead. "Why are you so surprised? Haven't I always made perfectly clear how much I respect you and your skills?"

"I didn't mean to imply that-"

"Joshua." He cupped Josh's face, leaned in, and placed a kiss on his forehead, before backing off and letting go again. "I trust a hunch of yours more than anyone else's facts. It's not just your expertise that matters to me; it's you. Don't you know that by now?"

Every time he and Nox talked face to face, Josh didn't feel like he'd lost so much anymore. It had always been this way, ever since they'd first met. It was hard to describe, to pinpoint why exactly Nox had this calming effect on him, but it was undeniable. He'd come to believe that there were simply people in the world who were inherently good, who'd take leaps of faith, who cared about their fellow human beings without wanting anything in return.

"I know," he said. His shoulders unknotted, his fists unclenched, his jaw unlocked. "The feeling's mutual, by the way."

Again, Nox smiled. The skin around his eyes crinkled. His whole face lit up. "Thank you for saying that...and meaning it, too. Don't think that I can't tell." A few seconds ticked by, before he added, "The anniversary is coming, isn't it? Your parents."

There was a cold pang in Josh's stomach. He looked out at the water, squinting. A little bit of sunshine was tentatively peering through the thinning fog and reflecting off the silvery water surface. "Yeah."

"I'm so, so sorry."

"Thanks, man." Nope, Josh had never been particularly eloquent. What did one say to such an expression of sentiment, anyway? Talking about grief was clumsy work, and Josh never felt particularly inclined to do it.

Thankfully, Nox was anything but tone-deaf. "So, want to tell me all about your infallible plan to catch the witch?"

"Yes, sir," Josh said, straightening his posture. He felt lighter already.

"Wonderful," Nox said, clapping a hand onto Josh's slim shoulder. "Oh, and Joshua? Please stop beating my soldiers to death. It's bad for morale."

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **This** **time** , **Hermione** **woke** **up** **before** **Daphne** **did**. It was still dark outside. As quietly as she could, she grabbed her clothes and headed into the bathroom to freshen up. The thought of leaving these luxuries behind for good was a tad depressing, even though she knew how silly the reaction was. Not only shouldn't she let herself get dragged down by a mere inconvenience, but it was also clear that no matter how hard they tried, they wouldn't be able to stay hidden here forever. She would exchange all the indoor plumbing and hot water in the world for the ensured survival of what was left of the wizarding world.

When she opened the door and found Luna right in front of her, smiling, Hermione flinched and sucked in a sharp breath through her nostrils. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and forced herself to relax. Good God! It was way, _way_ too early for a cardiac arrest.

"Did I scare you? I didn't mean to." It was nothing short of amazing how Luna, after all these years, still managed to sound this nonchalant and only casually interested in the current goings-on.

From what Harry had once told her, Hermione knew that Luna was very much capable of candid conversation, which led one to believe that her airy demeanour might at least in part be a façade. Hermione wouldn't blame her if that were the case. After all, she too protected herself by hiding behind a wall, only that hers was one of spouting factoids and being generally aggravated.

"No, you're okay; don't worry," Hermione said, and crossed her arms. "Were you waiting for me or for me to get out of the bathroom?"

"For you," Luna said, and smiled again. Despite her still youthful appearance, it was clear from the fragility of her frame and the dark rings under her eyes that she'd been to hell and back. "Draco just got a call from his friend - you know, the one with the flower name."

Hermione's stomach lurched. "Pansy called again? What... _why_?" A million thoughts shot through her head at once. Had the camp been discovered? Had they found out something relevant? Had...

...had Ron...

No. No, no, no. She must not even _think_ it. She mustn't.

Pansy wouldn't call for nothing, though. She might be rather unpleasant to be around, but she was far from stupid.

"Draco wouldn't say. He never wants to tell the same story more than once. It upsets him somewhat," Luna replied, spun around, and started heading down the staircase. "Come on. Everyone else is waiting."

Her innards roiling and her heart thumping, Hermione followed. These days, there wasn't much room anymore for optimism.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D Day dawns. Josh sets a trap. Nox chats with a prisoner.

** Chapter Six **

 

**1** **“It’ll be nigh-on impossible for Draco and the others to get into London,** let alone the Ministry,” Pansy was explaining to the eighteen other people she shared the camp with (poor Weasley the Younger was still dying in his tent). They were all sitting in the sort-of clearing between the tents, on old chairs, tree stumps, and the ground. Pansy was standing – not because that made any practical difference, but because somehow, it added some much needed drama to the situation. Everyone had grown so lethargic as of late, a little meaningless impetus might rally the people at least somewhat. It wasn’t as if Pansy had ever been much of a motivational speaker, but these days, it was either taking or leaving it. “So we have to be as a big a nuisance as possible. The Muggles must have their hands so full, they don’t know where to point their stupid guns at, first.” She refused to give those Muggle wankers more gravitas than they deserved by calling them by their wannabe impressive Latin club-name. What a ridiculous notion!

“You want to create a diversion,” Callidora Selwyn said, obviously doubtful. She was a suspected (but never convicted) former Death Eater who possessed a truly extraordinary knack for survival. It was quite admirable, really. Being around forty, she was the oldest person in the camp, but not a member of the unofficial leadership group. This was purely out of choice, too. Well, taking up the mantle of responsibility wasn’t for everyone. She did handle most of the camp’s logistics, though, which was not for the faint-hearted.

“That’s right. We want to create the biggest diversion the world has ever seen. Only then do Draco and the others have the slightest chance at success,” Pansy said, bracing herself for inevitable resistance.

“You mean Hermione and the others,” someone piped up from further back. “It was her idea, not Malfoy’s.”

Pansy just glared at the culprit. “Get your damn priorities straight. It doesn’t matter whose idea it was. Good God.” But of course she’d rather mention Draco by name than Granger. After all, the former had always been a good friend to her – the latter…yeah, not so much. Truth be told, the feeling was rather mutual.  

None of that mattered right now. They needed to go through with this plan, simply because it was the one shot at victory they had. Also, they were running out of time all too quickly. Bill, Fleur, and Parvati had not been happy about Pansy’s suggestion, but they’d agreed to support her, anyway. They’d all finally faced the sad fact that they could either step out of their hidey-hole, or just slowly wither away.

Callidora squinted slightly, scrutinising Pansy closely. “Forget about the Muggle-born girl and Lucius’s kid. Let’s talk about what you’re asking _us_ to do. This was your idea?”

Pansy smiled a little.

Weirdly enough, Callidora had been a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, but she was still highly wary of anyone who wasn’t a Pureblood. Some views were hard to shake, and she didn’t exactly hide her opinions from anyone. This could get somewhat awkward, especially given the fact that most of the people in charge at the camp had actively fought against Voldemort. Even though Callidora herself had not been convicted of anything, she never tried to pretend that she didn’t harbour certain doubts about the inclusion of Muggle-borns into wizarding society. This was, she’d explain whenever someone confronted her about it, because that meant including their Muggle families into wizarding society, too. Callidora wasn’t the only one who believed that their current case of terminal apocalypse was the result of Muggle relatives being dropped into the world of magic with no vetting or even a crash-course into how things worked.

Truth be told, it was Pansy’s theory, too. She’d never been shy about her own opinions, either, but now, those opinions seemed all but confirmed. Muggles had just as varying personalities as magical people did. There were good people among them; of that Pansy had no doubt. There were, however, horribly nasty ones among them, as well. Some of them had, at one point, been introduced to the fact that there was a world within their world simply because they were related to people who could perform magic. They’d found that world’s weaknesses and exploited them. Now, here were the last witches and wizards, facing extinction. Were the liberal policies of the post-Voldemort era to blame? Was Voldemort’s reign of terror to blame, as some postulated? Was it something else entirely? There was no way of knowing, but one could have theories.

Conditioning and a life of firmly-held beliefs were also a bitch to get rid of. Not that Pansy wanted to do that, anyway. “Yes,” she said, “it was my idea – my and Draco’s, actually. He inspired me to do something at all; I thought of the details.”

Okay, that wasn’t _exactly_ true; her primary inspiration had been Granger the All-Knowing, but who cared? Callidora’s Team Governess status meant she was a force to be reckoned with. If she were to believe that the idea was a stupid, bleeding-heart Mudblood gig, she might persuade most of the others to vote against it.

Also, Pansy and Granger would never be friends, and sometimes, it was really hard to bite the bullet. She didn’t think Granger would mind.

“All right, then,” Callidora said, and shrugged. “We might as well. Not that I don’t absolutely adore our little slice of paradise, but a change of scenery would be nice. When do we start?”

“Tomorrow,” Pansy said, feeling fidgety and energised to the point of wanting to run off right bloody now. “I’ll call Draco, relate the details, and then we can get rolling.”

Murmurs erupted.

Bill Weasley, seated next to his wife, clapped his hands together. “All right, people. Before we start discussing any details, let’s first have a show of hands. Who’s in favour of going through with Pansy’s plan?”

The first hands to go up were his, Fleur’s, Parvati’s, and Pansy’s. Next was Callidora: she almost lazily raised her fingers, not taking her eyes off Pansy’s, smiling slightly.

Then, the miracle happened: people woke up. Every single one of them raised their hands.

Pansy allowed a broad smile to spread across her face. She clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. Finally, we’re getting somewhere!”

“Probably our deaths,” Bill said in a quiet, sullen tone, and scratched his pasty forehead.

“Oh, lighten up, Weasley,” Callidora said, smirking at him. “Yes, we might die, but at least it’ll be a death for the ages.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Hermione was standing on the beach house’s balcony, looking out at the ocean.** The weather was lovely: the sky was clear and the early morning sunshine reflected off the soft, retreating waves. The pebbles and small-ish, round stones protecting the shoreline from erosion looked almost purple from where she was standing. There were even some early bird joggers on the broad, surprisingly well-maintained promenade. Yes, even this beach, the preferred place of retirement for well-to-do seniors, was a bit run down, but compared to the rest of the United Kingdom, it was in an almost pristine condition. It was a sight of uncomplicated beauty Hermione had grown to believe she’d never get to enjoy again. The thought sounded melodramatic inside her own mind, but she couldn’t help it. The daily grind of pure survival ate away at a person, the way that the tides ate away at Britain’s shore.

Crikey, what was _with_ those silly comparisons? The world did not revolve around her misery, and the ocean did what it had always done without malice. The world turned as it always had, not caring for the fates of its inhabitants. Even if people one day would cease to exist, it would go on turning. Somehow, this was comforting to her – not much, but these days, she took what she could get. She closed her eyes and raised her face toward the sun, breathing in the salty, briny, humid, chilly air. Autumn would give way to winter, soon. Maybe it would even snow this year. Maybe they would have white Christmas.

Her thoughts turned to Ron, as they always did when she didn’t pay attention. Her whole body felt heavy. She felt a million years old. Only a few years ago, his sickness would have been easily cured, easily got rid of. In a world where performing magic was becoming more and more impossible, they simply didn’t have the means to cure something as silly as cancer anymore. It was as if they had regressed in time, losing their accomplishments as time went by. The worst part was that Muggle medicine would have probably made all the difference, but there was no going to a Muggle doctor. The risk of discovery was too great; once a witch or wizard was identified as such, in rolled the Malleus Deorum and whisked them away to an uncertain fate. Many had found death that way. Others had just disappeared.

The efficiency of the magic detection system was to be admired. It was, to this day, a mystery how this had been implemented as quickly as it had, all over the world. Well, this was the general supposition, at least, and what reports from other countries had indicated before communications went down. After that, Britain turned into an isolated island again. Hermione herself had racked her brain so many times trying to remember all the details, trying to come up with a viable theory of how the hell that Nox character had managed to bulldoze the entire planet in what had basically been one fell swoop, taking such complete control that everyone was just left to stare in slack-jawed bewilderment. He must have been preparing in secret for years, that much was obvious. The more important question to her, as she’d wasted night after sleepless night, had been the how. The world was such a complicated, complex mess of governments and lobbies and unruly masses. How could any one group more or less take over everything? _How?_

With magic, that was how.

Not many people knew much about the world-conquering maniac apart from the fact that it was a man from somewhere in Britain who was a Muggle. Somehow, however, he must have found a way to use magic to get where he wanted, to obtain absolute control over the vast machinery of his movement – the Malleus Deorum, made up of thousands of busy little homicidal bees. None of this boded well for the many witches and wizards who had simply vanished off the face of the Earth. Thinking about them made her skin crawl; whatever happened, she did not intend to get caught alive. Never would she willingly become part of this horrifying system.

In the end, she decided that it didn’t even matter much how he’d done it; he’d done it. That was the reality they all existed in. Now, the few magic folk left needed to band together for a last hurrah. If they could just get to Ginny and her know-how, if they could just get to Nox, then maybe there was a way to make all of this go away. The wizarding world – if it could even be called that anymore – would never be the same, no, but they could always rebuild from the ashes of what had come before. There just needed to be something to build _from_.

Again, her thoughts turned to Ron, and she had to pour all her concentration into keeping calm and collected. She didn’t want to keep herself from thinking about him anymore. There was the very real possibility that she might die today, that they all might die today. She didn’t want to go knowing that she had banished him from her thoughts just because these thoughts were painful. That was cowardly, and he deserved better.

“We’re ready.”

Malfoy’s voice behind her made her flinch. She didn’t turn around, but she opened her eyes and looked down at her bony hands. “Good. We have to be inside the Ministry by nightfall.”

He stepped up to the railing, to her right, and leaned against it. “Pansy says they’ll go through with their side of the plan regardless, so we better manage to do our part.”

Her eyes narrowed, she half-turned in order to face him properly. He was squinting against the glare, as well. The cold breeze was ruffling his almost white hair. He had dark rings around his eyes, which stood in rather stark contrast to his pallid skin.

She wasn’t the only one harbouring painful memories. “We’ll succeed. This will work. It has to.”

“It has to,” he echoed quietly, thoughtfully. “For once, you and I can agree on something, Granger.” After glancing at her, he added, “Would you like to do the honours?”

“Sure,” she said, producing her wand out of her jumper’s sleeve. Her heart picked up the pace. Her innards were in knots. Her hands were cold and clammy. Sweat broke out on her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Was this really happening? It didn’t feel like it. The world seemed to have taken on a pale, silvery, dreamlike quality that was hard to describe. “Here goes nothing.” She raised her wand up to the clear skies and called out, “ _Periculum!_ ”

From her wand, a bright, red, loud firework erupted, shooting out above the shingled roofs with a roar. Windows were opened. Passers-by stopped short on the pathways. Further away, tyres screeched. Someone cried out in shock.

This was it. The deed had been done. _Alea iacta est_.

Now, there was no turning back.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Since Nox had personally given him the day off, Josh had returned to his big,** empty house full of memories to try to catch some shut-eye. He hadn't exactly gotten much sleep the last seventy-two hours or whatever, and it was starting to affect his ability to think clearly. Lack of sleep made him irritable, too, which was probably one of the reasons why he’d exploded at Welsh Mister Clean earlier. Even though he’d been admonished, he didn’t really think that kicking that oaf’s head in had been a mistake. Incompetent and mean-spirited bullies needed to be removed from the organisation, and if their removal sent a message to the troops, even better. A leader should always have a strong hand; sometimes, he or she needed to use their fist.

Their organisation wasn’t called Hammer of the Gods for nothing.

After consuming a meagre lunch made of microwave-heated leftovers plucked from the fridge, he all but fell into bed, closed his eyes, and blacked out.

It took him a good long while until he realised that the tinny screech tearing at the edges of his consciousness was a telephone ringing. Sluggishly, he emerged from the deepest of sleep, realised that it was still light outside, and suppressed a curse as he grabbed his cell from the nightstand. One cursory glance at the display told him that it was Sarah who couldn’t go five hours without going on his nerves.

No, that wasn’t fair. She wouldn’t call unless she absolutely had to.

He flipped the phone open and took the call. “Yeah.” Christ, his voice sounded as if he were sedated.

“ _You were still sleeping?_ ” Sarah sounded mildly amused.

“It’s still daylight. Been sleeping for what, five hours?” He sat up and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.

Her deadpan reply came promptly: “ _More like fifteen. It’s the next day_.”

The revelation sent a jolt through his body. “Oh.” He scrambled out of bed, lurched into the adjacent bathroom (way too huge for a single person in his humble opinion), and got a glass of water before eyeing himself in the spotty mirror. He looked drowsy, pillow-marked, and dishevelled, but way less like a walking corpse than before. “What happened?”

“ _You’ll never believe it: someone magically threw some fireworks in Bexhill-on-Sea_.”

He watched his own eyes grow wide. “ _What?_ How’s that a thing?” The scars on his chest itched faintly.

“ _Tiny pocket of magic. Suppression’s never been all that great in that area, and now, a witch decided to throw a party by firing a few sparks into the air_.” This was one of Sarah’s most admirable qualities: she did not get fazed easily.

He chewed on his lower lip, slowly shook his head, took a deep breath, turned around, and leaned against the clunky marble sink. “Okay,” he said, covering his eyes with his free hand, “here’s what you’re gonna do, and you need to follow my instructions precisely.”

“ _Don’t I ever?_ ”

 “Yeah, you do. Anyway, the witch who did this is the one the morons in Wales chased off the bridge. She didn’t just shoot sparks into the air for fun. There’s a plan behind this.”

“ _No kidding_.”

Choosing to ignore the uncalled-for wisecrack, he said, “I’m convinced that she and her buddies are trying to get into London, into the Ministry of Magic building. They can’t do so by any conventional means, so they have to improvise. If they get our attention doing some stupid bit of useless magic, that means we send out a patrol to investigate.”

“ _You think they want to hijack the patrol car and use it to get past the checkpoints. But that’s not possible. We’d detect their magic immediately_.”

He looked up at the plastered ceiling. There was a water stain that needed fixing. “They’ll use whatever magic they still have access to, where they are now, and compel the patrol to only pretend to take them prisoner. Inside the car, they’ll switch off the suppression system and therefore, they’ll still be able to use magic for a while. I bet you they’re banking on getting through the checkpoints that way. It’s a ‘hiding in plain sight’ ploy that’s as old as dirt.”

“ _That’ll never work_.”

Allowing himself to smile a little, he said, “They don’t know that, though, do they? No, to them, it’ll seem as if the plan’s working like a charm” – Ha, ha, and applause for the dumbest pun in the universe – “and we’ll let them drive right into the heart of the capital.”

A little pause ensued. “ _You want them to break that amber stuff_.”

“You don’t miss a trick.” He pressed his knuckles to his lips and cleared his throat. “No patrol has been sent, right?”

“ _Nope. Calling you first like you asked me to_.”

“Good. That’s good. Now, I’m gonna tell you exactly what to do, and it’s vital that everyone involved follow these orders to the letter. Can you make that happen?”

“ _Of course I can_.” This wasn’t arrogance, it was honesty. Sarah might be the Terminator, yes, but that had positive sides to it: she was the most reliable person he knew.

Again, he smiled softly. He felt almost giddy. “Good. Write it down, then. We’re about to catch ourselves the solution to all of our problems.”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **American golden boy Joshua Lucesco was one of the few people to whom Nox had given his mobile phone number.** Therefore, Joshua had been able to call him and tell him all about the steps being taken in order to set a trap for the enemy witch and her accomplices **.** It was important that a leader be accessible, but only to a selected group of people. Not only had every monarch or head of state in history operated the same way, but also the very inspirational yet criminally short-sighted Lord Voldemort. He’d had his inner-circle Death Eaters, who’d in the end only followed him out of fear for their lives and the lives of their families. Priding himself on his ability to learn from mistakes, no matter whose, Nox had, from the beginning, chosen to act differently. Fear was a good tool to disorientate enemies, to keep them paralysed and frozen. It was no way to treat one’s followers. No, followers needed to be inspired by their leader. They needed to feel love, not terror. Terror bred resistance.

In the Malleus Deorum, there was no room for resistance.

Much to his assistant’s irritation, Nox was an outdoor kind of guy – always had been. During his childhood, he and his friends had gone on endless hiking and camping trips. Once they got older, they’d started visiting other parts of England by taking trains and buses and by hitching rides. On his eighteenth birthday, he and a bunch of mates had flown to Mallorca – not to party at the beach, but to trek through the hilly countryside. It had been the greatest holiday of his life. He’d been fortunate, but really, being anywhere but home would’ve been enough for him. He’d caused his family a considerable amount of grief by just being who he was, and he, in turn, just couldn’t stand to spend any more time with them than he had to.

Frankly, if it were up to him, he’d just get himself a caravan and travel all over Europe, but it wasn’t up to him. He had a monumental task ahead of himself, which required sacrifice. Therefore, he did spend as much time as he could outdoors, but he actually lived inside Windsor Castle. Buckingham Palace might have been the more obvious choice, but Windsor was a fortress – not to mention the fact that he’d always had a fascination with the place. It was a bit like Hogwarts, at least in a sense, filled with nooks and crannies and creepy secret underground chambers that still held the ghosts of their turbulent past. But Hogwarts was inaccessible, now, and Windsor was just as concrete as everything else in the Muggle world.

It was just as well.

Right now, he was in the magnificent, ludicrously oversized Crimson Drawing Room, waiting for his guards to fetch one of his special guests for him. This was another great advantage Windsor Castle held: it had enough room to house not only Nox and his chosen ones, but also a very select group of his worst enemies.

When he heard steps approaching, he turned away from the window he’d been looking out and smiled at the newcomer. It was a tall, thin, blonde witch with a strikingly beautiful, yet haughty face. She was a little over fifty, if memory served, and seemed to grow only more magnificent with every passing year. Not even captivity had dulled her loveliness, even though she looked thinner than she used to, and paler. The look on her face, as she was led in by four uniformed guards, was one of pure disdain. Beautiful.

Nox cracked a smile at her. “Narcissa. Please, have a seat.” He motioned at one of the rather uncomfortable golden sofas with the silly red cushions: the one at the opposite side of the room, underneath one of the huge oil paintings. It must be so strange to her that no-one in Muggle paintings ever moved. He had to admit, it took some getting used to if one hadn't grown up with it.

After wrinkling her nose at him in disgust, she did as asked, ambling over to the sofa in question and sitting down on the edge. She sat straight as an arrow, poised and graceful and regal – a true daughter of the House of Black, and no mistake. “You have some nerve, addressing me by my first name, when you won’t even tell anyone your real one.”

He settled down on one of the chairs – close to her, but not too close. Despite all the reasons he gave her to hate him, he certainly did not want to come across as a creep. “Is everything all right with your accommodations?” It was better to ignore the whole name thing. Some things were, as Joshua would call it, need to know.

She raised a thin eyebrow at him. “if you’re so worried about my well-being, you little cretin, you’ll let me go home.”

“Let’s not go there,” he said, unable to stop smiling. “Other than letting you go, what can I do for you to make your stay here more pleasant?”

The expression on her face grew even icier. In slow, deliberate motions, she smoothed out the skirt of her long, midnight-blue dress. “You know perfectly well what I want, so don’t ask silly questions. If you’ve only brought me here to play your little games, then don’t bother. I refuse to participate. Send me back into my cell.”

It was his turn to raise his eyebrows at her. “Cell? You’re living in the Semi-State Apartments, not a dungeon.”

“A prison is a prison is a prison.” She returned his look without flinching. This was one unafraid woman. “Tell me what you want or send me back.”

“You’re no fun at all,” he said, leaned his head back, and sighed. “Whatever. Be that way. I just wanted to tell you that a group of witches is coming here, to London. They’ve got a plan to free the ambered people at the Ministry.”

That certainly caught her attention. For a couple of seconds, she looked surprised. Then, the mask was back on. “I’m sure you’ve got it all figured out. And why are you telling _me_ any of this? Go tell it to your Yankee lapdog.”

He straightened his posture and smirked at her. “Well, from what I know about the whereabouts and movements of certain witches and wizards, I do believe that your beloved son might be one of them.”

Her reaction was a thing to be savoured: she balled her hands into fists, her right eyelid twitched once, and she breathed in more deeply than before. Then, she was like a frozen lake again: calm, icy, and indescribably lovely. She glared at him. “You’re lying.”

“I’m many things, Narcissa, but I’m not a liar. Besides, I didn’t say he was definitely among them; I said he might. Chances are, he is. Your Draco is, after all, an ingenious young man.”

“He’s a million times better than any of your clowns.” A grim little smile playing with her lips, she added, “He’s certainly a million times better than you.”

“Yet here I am,” he said, and spread out his arms. When she shot him an exceedingly black look, he snickered. “Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. A moment ago, you asked me what I want from you. It’s very simple, actually.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I want to ask you how far you’ll go in order to save your family.”

“You don’t _have_ my son.”

“Your son isn't all I have to offer.”

Again, her pale blue eyes grew wide. “Say what you-”

“He’s here, you know. He’s been here all along: your dear Lucius.”

She was now fighting to keep her composure. A faint, rosy blush blossomed high up on her cheeks. “I already told you: I won’t play any games.”

“It’s no game.” From the pocket of his suit jacket, he plucked his mobile, unlocked it, and held it out to her. “Look. Proof. Here he is, alive and thriving.”

Of course she didn’t take the phone – she wouldn’t get her hands anywhere near his – but she could see the picture perfectly well. All colour blanched from her face. Her eyes darted from the display to Nox. “I want to speak to him.”

“You will…or you won’t.” He stuffed his phone back into his pocket. “It’s entirely up to you.”

For a second or two, she closed her eyes, before glaring at him again. “I will not cooperate. If you believe for one second that I’ll help you eradicate what’s left of the wizarding world, you are badly mistaken.”

“Not even to save your beloved husband?” He gave her a meaningful look. “How long do you think he’ll be useful to me if I can’t even use him as a bargaining chip to get you to play along?”

She smiled. It was a fierce, angry, disdainful sneer and possibly the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Tell me what it is you want.”

Just like he had as she’d entered the room, he beamed. “I’d be all too happy to tell you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and the others catch themselves a ride and make some interesting discoveries. Pansy prepares her camp for the planned diversion.

 

**1** **Getting the patrol car and taking control of the goons inside wasn’t going to be easy,** but it would be by far the easiest part of the whole enterprise. They didn’t exactly have a contingency plan, either. It was kind of a make-things-up-as-they-went-along deal. Hermione positively hated to be forced to do nothing but improvise, but over the years, she had learned to stop being so horribly inflexible. It was difficult, getting over oneself and biting the bullet, but it was most certainly a necessity. Therefore, she took the plunge and set the events into motion. Standing on the beach house’s balcony, she raised her wand into the air and gave the world a firework.

Then, they waited.

Timing was of the essence, here. Upon detection of magic, a patrol car would be sent. Inside the car, there’d be two to four goons ready to investigate. If they caught one wizard or witch, they’d apprehend them and take them to London. If they caught several, they’d probably call for backup. The trick was to not get caught. It was one hell of a trick, too, because when Malleus soldiers ventured into a place where magic existed, they were equipped with personal magic suppressors. Otherwise, they would not stand a chance.

Overwhelming a person who headed into a house blindly wasn’t the hardest part. It had been done before. Soldiers had been killed by wizarding people who just kicked their heads in or used other forms of conventional, mundane violence. The problem wasn’t ambushing a few Muggles. The problem was making the rest of the plan happen. What Hermione and her friends (was she thinking of Malfoy as a friend, here? Curious times, indeed) were planning to do was so ludicrous and suicidal, she didn’t think anyone else had even thought of attempting it before. She didn’t believe in luck, chance, or anything as intangible as fate, but even so, she hoped that after all the disaster that had been heaped upon her kind, they’d _finally_ be able to catch a break.

It was too late to give in to doubts, now, anyway.

Everyone was in position, inside the house, when the car arrived. Lucky for Hermione and the others, protocol demanded that Muggles should clear the area in a rather big radius when magic was detected. Nox might be a horrible, genocidal monster, but he apparently cared quite a bit about avoiding Muggle casualties. Well, everyone had their own, personal priorities, didn’t they? It was something Hermione could grudgingly get behind. She didn’t want any civilians getting in the way, either. Most of them were innocent people just trying to get by. They didn’t deserve to get caught up in a supernatural war of global proportions.

Since Malfoy had been the one to most dislike the whole scheme, everyone else had caved when he’d made a not-too-pleasant suggestion about how to incapacitate the Malleus soldiers. Hermione herself didn’t approve of excessive violence under any circumstances, but she had to agree with Malfoy on one thing: the time for being squeamish had long passed. Now, she and Daphne were standing half-hidden behind the door leading from the corridor to the kitchen. Luna was on the staircase, Rolf in the adjacent garage, Malfoy to the right of the front door, behind the guest bathroom door. They had to time their attack perfectly. Otherwise, their momentum would be gone, and they’d be doomed.

So much could still go wrong at this early stage.

Then, everything just happened so quickly. The front door wasn’t locked. Someone cautiously opened it. There were whispers – two people: a man and a woman. The person at the front stepped inside. No-one said another word. Hermione could glimpse them gesturing to each other. They wore thick jackets, gloves, and probably bullet-proof vests, but none of that would help them. For a second, Hermione wanted to call it all off. They didn’t deserve to-

It was almost over before it even began. Moving so quickly that it almost seemed as if he’d Apparated there, Malfoy emerged from the guest bathroom, a strange concoction of aerosol can plus wall bracket plus candle in his hands. The soldiers spotted him, turned, guns in their hands, but he was faster. He cracked a vicious little smile, sprayed hairspray from the can onto the burning candle, and bathed both soldiers in bright flames. It was horrible: fire licked at their faces and their hair, at their collars. Screaming, they dropped their guns, beat at their faces with their hands, went on their knees. Still cold and calm and very much in control, Malfoy pushed them down the corridor, shut the front door, and then kicked the handguns out of their reach.

It took the others a moment to shake themselves out of their shock, but then, they acted. Hermione held her breath, skidded down the corridor, and picked up the guns.

Luna jumped down the stairs, makeshift rope in her hands, and knelt down. “We should put them out.”

“Not yet. Let me savour this a few more seconds,” Malfoy said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. His expression was level. He was still holding his homemade flamethrower in his hands.

The male soldier had blacked out; the female one was writhing and screaming her head off as her hair coiled into charred ruins around her head.

“ _No!_ ” Hermione grabbed a kitchen towel and dowsed the flames as quickly as possible. She breathed. The stench was unbelievable. Not that it was anything strange and repulsive – no, it smelled like overcooked chicken. Her stomach roiled. She pressed her eyes together.

Rolf emerged from the garage, his face ashen and also a bit greenish. He pulled his wand. “The suppressors are-” The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he gagged and pressed his arm against his nose and mouth.

Malfoy sneered at him, looking every bit the Pureblood supremacist he’d been as a teenager. “Grow a spine, Scamander.” With as much disdain as he could muster, he kicked the male soldier in the ribs.

There was the tell-tale crunch of breaking bones. The soldier winced.

Hermione glowered up at him. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Choke on it and die, Granger. I’ll not be lectured by anyone, least of all a hypocrite with a bleeding heart like you. These wankers deserve everything they get.” He dropped to his knees, set the flamethrower aside, and searched through the male soldier’s pockets. “Ah, here it is.” With a triumphant little smirk on his face, he held up a small, round device cased in dark-grey carbon.

“Turn it off, then,” Hermione said, fighting a renewed wave of nausea as she looked into the raw, bleeding, and blackened face of the now unconscious female soldier. It wasn’t even possible to tell what the colour of her skin had been, anymore.

It was surprisingly easy to switch the damn things off, too. After they’d done so, they all just stayed where they were for a few seconds, unsure of how to proceed.

Rolf, greener in the face than ever, held his wand up again. In a croaky, broken little voice, he said, “ _Lumos_.”

When a sphere of pure, white light emanated from the wand, everyone stared in shock and awe.

Hermione was the first to snap out of it. She pulled her wand from her sleeve, held it to the female soldier’s face, and said, “ _Vulnera Sanentur_.”

 Malfoy snorted derisively. “Killjoy.”

“We still need them,” Luna said, after healing the male soldier. “They probably won’t want to help us with their faces burnt off.”

“No, but it still feels good to see them writhing in agony,” Daphne said from behind Hermione. She spoke in a quiet tone. Her voice was shaking.

It wasn’t as if Hermione didn’t understand. In the abstract, she too did not feel an ounce of sympathy for the Malleus and agreed that they deserved getting their faces burnt off – in the abstract. Seeing it happen right in front of her eyes, being partly responsible for it…well, that was a different matter entirely. It didn’t feel quite right to her, the way part of her had hoped it would. She had lost people, too. As much as she believed revenge to be wrong, she did feel that someone had to pay for all the misery. Now, she couldn’t even derive any sort of satisfaction from giving some of these freaks a proper payback. She didn’t even know whether that was a good or a bad thing – probably a little bit of both. Things weren't quite as black-and-white as she’d once believed.

“So, what now?” Rolf said, hurrying to open the door leading from the kitchen to the backyard, to get rid of the stink.

“Now, Friendly Neighbourhood Hufflepuff, you step back and watch a professional at work,” Malfoy said, rose to his feet, plucked his wand from his jacket pocket, and pointed it at the still knocked-out male soldier. “ _Rennervate_.” There was a brief flash of bright, red light.

The soldier stirred, opened his eyes, and gasped. Immediately, he tried to raise his bound hands, groaning when that didn’t work. His eyes darted about wildly.

Malfoy held up the suppressor, smiling. “Looking for this?”

The young man’s face paled. He tried to sit, but thought otherwise when he saw that five wands were being pointed at his head.

“I believe,” Malfoy said, “that the expression you’re looking for is ‘oh, crap’. It would be appropriate, too. I won’t mice words for your benefit. I got to say, you’re pretty fucked.” It was so, so strange to hear him, of all people, cussing like that.

“You won’t get away with this,” the soldier said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. He had an Irish accent, something none of them had heard in quite a while.

“You won’t be there to witness it.” The smile melted off Malfoy’s face. Coldly, he beheld the soldier, before he said, “ _Imperio_.”

The soldier closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. When he looked at Malfoy again, his eyes were a little glazed over, a little absent.

“You’re sure this is working?” Rolf said.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at him. “You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

Rolf only raised his hands in a defensive motion. It was obvious that he and Malfoy would never be the best of chums.

That was another thing Hermione could blame neither of them for. Sometimes, people just weren't compatible with each other. It was just a little unfortunate when they were then forced to live together. Wasn’t that the plot of some sitcom or other her parents had enjoyed watching? She couldn’t quite recall. Not that it mattered. She pocketed the female soldier’s suppressor and stood up. “We need to make them call for a backup patrol car. We don’t all fit into one.”

“It would look suspicious as hell, too,” Daphne said.

“All right then,” Malfoy said, still pointing his wand at the serenely smiling male soldier. “What was that saying again? There’s no time like the present.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **In order for Pansy’s plan to work even remotely,** they needed to coordinate their efforts with absolute precision. For the first time in way too long, the general mood at the camp was positive, even hopeful. People were buzzing about, packing up their things and doing what they could to inflict as much damage as possible on the Muggles who’d come snooping. In the meantime, Bill and Fleur were moving his brother to a different place. They didn’t want to tell anyone where, and Pansy could understand why: if someone got captured, they’d probably be forced to reveal his hiding place.

Truth be told, Pansy believed that someone this terminally ill shouldn’t be forced to suffer like that, but it wasn’t her call. She understood why his brother and sister-in-law were so hell-bent on protecting him, because that was what people did: they placed their loved ones above everyone else. In their particular case, however, that meant they weren't going to be there to help the others. It was a bit of a wasted effort, too, wasn’t it? Even if Weasley the Younger got caught, he was in no condition to reveal any secrets to the enemy. He probably didn’t have a month to live. To keep a dying man from getting killed a few weeks early, Bill and Fleur would recuse themselves from the fight. Their loss would be felt, loath as Pansy was to admit this.

They’d argued that their odds of survival were greater if everyone wasn’t together during their little diversion tactic, and maybe they even believed this. Pansy hadn't bothered telling them that she didn’t buy any of it, because it wouldn’t make a difference. Bill and Fleur would do what they had to; they all would. It wasn’t a wrong decision, either – not exactly It just wasn’t one that Pansy would make. At least that was what she believed. She didn’t have a dying brother to take care of. In theory, making hard decisions was always much less complicated than in reality.

Pansy was standing by the small waterfall, lifting rocks magically and balancing them above, in the trees. They were charmed to explode like bombs once strangers approached. If the Muggles showed up here with their magic suppressors, the rocks would simply rain down on their heads. It was, as Finnegan had called it before he got shot to pieces, a win-win situation – a fitting description, to the sure.

Someone stepped up next to her; it was Callidora Selwyn. She said, “You’re a clever young woman, you know that? Clever, resourceful, and tenacious. No wonder you got sorted into Slytherin.”

After briefly glancing at her, Pansy replied, “Thanks. I just wonder why _you_ got sorted into Ravenclaw – no offence.”

“None taken.” Callidora sounded somewhat amused. “To be honest, I’ve often wondered about that, myself. I probably wasn’t ambitious enough to be a Slytherin. Who knows? The sorting certainly came as a bit of a surprise to me. It’s what makes life interesting, isn't it? The unexpected.”

“I suppose. Although I could do with some of the old boring and predictable again.” Pansy lowered her wand and turned to face Callidora. “What would you be doing now if the apocalypse hadn't happened?”

Callidora arched her thin, dark eyebrows. “The apocalypse? How very dramatic.” She laughed lowly. “Well, dear girl, if the apocalypse hadn't happened, I’d be writing a tell-all autobiography that would shock the wizarding world. I’d make a small fortune off it and then go on book tour. Critics would spew their hatred, but my fans would be at my feet.”

A few seconds passed until Pansy realised that the other woman was joking. She chuckled, wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and shook her head. “I don’t know what I’d be doing, either. I do know, however, what I _will_ do if we by some miracle manage to meet up with my friend Draco and his group.”

“What’s that?”

Pansy’s face felt a little warm. She rolled her eyes at herself and her juvenile silliness. “I’m gonna gather all my courage and finally confess my true feelings to a certain someone.” She had no idea how she’d expected Callidora to react to the admission, but she had not expect what actually happened.

Callidora’s expression softened. She reached out and briefly touched Pansy’s upper arm. “Whoever he or she is, they couldn’t be luckier.”

For a short moment, they just stood there in silence.

Then, Pansy discreetly cleared her throat and snickered. “Anyone out there _you’re_ anxious to meet?”

First, it seemed as if Callidora wouldn’t answer at all. She looked past Pansy, a wistful expression on her thin face. Then, she smiled a little; it looked both nostalgic and bitter, somehow. “That’s a story for another day. I’m gonna go help the Patil girl.” After another arm-pat, she turned around and sauntered off.

As Pansy watched her leave, she couldn’t help but feel a little bit melancholic. They all had at least one proverbial skeleton in the closet, didn’t they?

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **The male soldier, under the Imperius curse,** called the closest outpost in Hastings and requested one further patrol car to transport a set of enemies to the capital. The female soldier, meanwhile, drove the Jeep into the garage and explained to Hermione the mechanics of the magic suppression system. She was sitting behind the steering wheel, Hermione to her left.

“See the little switch here?” She pointed at a square metal apparatus that had been welded onto the dashboard, wedged between the steering wheel and the radio. In the middle of that was a silver-coloured switch.

Hermione only nodded. She kept her wand firmly in hand, afraid the Imperius curse might wear off. The odds of that happening were low, but circumstances had taught her to be wary.

The soldier returned the nod. She was a woman of about forty, white, on the short side, and surprisingly muscular. She wore her regrown, light-brown hair pinned up in a braid. From the looks of her, she was probably a good fighter. It was the group’s luck that she hadn't counted on being ambushed and taken out by a makeshift flamethrower. “It’s what keeps us safe inside our Jeeps and close around them. The radius is about ten square metres.”

Going metric, were they? Peculiar. Out loud, Hermione said, “Do you have any idea how it works?”

“No. Only Nox knows how they work.”

That was paranoid, but not unexpected. “But what if one breaks down?”

“None ever has.”

“Impossible. No, not impossible – improbable.”

“It’s true, though: none of them has ever broken down – not the portable ones, not the stationary ones.”

“Do you know where those are located?”

The soldier said, “Yes and no. I know where the one in Central London is because my brother works there. He’s an engineer.”

Calling this little titbit ‘good news’ would be the understatement of the decade. Trying to keep a cool façade, even though it wasn’t even necessary, Hermione said, “Can you draw a floor map for us?”

“I can. But you won’t be able to get inside.”

“We’ll see.” Hermione plucked the portable one from her jumper’s pocket and held it up to scrutinise it. This was a small piece of machinery, identical to hundreds of others. There were also the big ones that covered several square miles in nearly infallible magic suppression fields. At least some of them should, from time to time, experience at least technical hiccups. How likely was it that none of them ever broke down? Not very. That was when a thought occurred to her. Acid sloshed in her stomach. She felt a little dizzy. Could it…no. It couldn’t. Could it? There was only one way to find out. With something akin to reverence, she pointed her wand at the thing, and said, “ _Finite Incantatem_.”

There was a spark of bright, white light, followed by darkness. After-images bounced before Hermione’s eyes. She saw that the female soldier was blinking, too. Had…had this _worked_? Really? Obviously, she wasn’t going to test it here, but it needed to be tested, and soon. Despite lack of confirmation, though, Hermione was fairly convinced that the suppressor was no longer functioning. That was rich, wasn’t it? Ironic, in a sense. It had been clear to her that Nox must have some access to magic in order to exert this level of control, yes. But to think that the instruments of domination over the wizarding population were charmed objects, powered by the very thing they were supposed to suppress? It made her want to give in to the temptation of breaking into hysterical laughter.

A moment passed until she managed to gather herself. “If we drive through the checkpoints, will the suppressors they have there affect us?”

“Maybe. I’m not exactly sure, to be perfectly honest with you. It depends on whether the people manning the checkpoints become suspicious or not. Sometimes, they do random sweeps. But the deeper we get into the quarantined zone, the less likely that becomes. Magic suppression is everywhere in there, so extra controls aren’t needed.”

“We can still do magic inside the Ministry building.”

The soldier blinked at her, then frowned. “The Ministry building is ambered.”

“Yes, it is. So…how do we get through the checkpoints without getting caught?”

“I don’t know that, either. Cross your fingers and hope for the best? Pray? Ward the Jeep?”

The last one was actually not a bad tip.

“That might work.” Hermione leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds. Her head was aching dully. She then made herself look at the soldier again. “What’s your name?”

“Mary Shelley.”

Hermione perked up. “Seriously?”

Mary laughed. “Seriously. Though these days, not many people get it anymore. A Yank, of all people, was the first one in forever to get adorably excited about that.” Her expression turned soft, pensive. She smiled a little. “Our captain. He’s the only one of us field soldiers who actually gets to regularly talk to the man himself. He tries to play it down, but I know that he’s one of the few people that Nox actually trusts blindly.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. The more they knew about the higher-ups, the better. “What’s his name?”

“Josh. Joshua Lucesco, that is. He’s a little bit…well, intense, sometimes, but overall a pretty great guy. Treats everyone who deserves it with the outmost respect.” She leaned toward Hermione a bit. “He hates you people more than anyone I know – something about how his parents died. I don’t know. I tried asking him a number of times, but he kept deflecting, so I gave up. I don’t want to come across as nosy.”

“Do you, erm…do you perchance know where this person lives?” Hermione’s thoughts were racing. Her skin broke up in gooseflesh. If they could get to one of the top officers in the organisation, then they’d have a real shot at finding Nox! Everything depended on it.

Mary looked at her as if she were daft. “Of course I do. We go out sometimes. It’s nothing official, but he likes to stay at my place from time to time. Too many ghosts at his mum’s house, he says.”

And wasn’t it just Hermione’s luck to have caught this woman, who wasn’t only rather chatty whilst being under the _Imperius_ curse, but also the sort-of girlfriend of a higher-up? Of one of the people in Nox’s inner circle? This just had to be their luck turning around. It had to be. It had to. She clutched the suppressor in one hand, her wand in the other, and said, “Tell me all about him.”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **The other patrol car arrived shortly afterwards, and with the help of the cursed soldiers,** getting them to walk blindly into the ambush was no trouble at all. Malfoy had wanted to fry them, too, but there was no need for that, and everyone else except for Daphne voted against it. Now, they were all in the kitchen, talking about how to proceed. The soldiers were all cursed and sitting meekly at the table, watching their captors in disinterested silence.

“So these magic suppressors are charmed objects designed to suppress every single bit of magic except the kind they’re programmed to do?” Luna said, after Hermione had confirmed her theory in the backyard: once the suppressor’s charm was disabled, it stopped working altogether.

Hermione nodded. She was leaning against the oversized fridge that stood right next to the door. “I tried switching it back on in the backyard, but it won’t work anymore at all. As long as it’s running, you can’t use _Finite Incantatem_ on them, though. The spell only does what it’s supposed to when the device is shut off.”

“How in the hell does a Muggle know how to charm a machine?” Daphne said. She pressed her fingertips against her temples and sighed. “This is so weird.”

“At least there is a way to shut those things down – the portable ones. No idea how the stationary suppressors work, but they should follow the same principle,” Hermione said. “That’s good news for us.”

“As far as good news go, yeah,” Rolf said, looking doubtful. “Kind of, at least.”

“Maybe he’s not a Muggle,” Luna said. She was sitting on the threshold that lead to the backyard. Everyone looked at her. She smiled faintly. “Nox. Maybe he isn't a Muggle at all.”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Why would a wizard cover the Earth in machines that make his own powers useless? That seems counterproductive to me.”

“He does use magic to _suppress_ magic, though. That means he knows what he’s doing,” Rolf objected.

Daphne gave him a pained look. “Have you forgotten about the droves of wizarding folk who just disappeared? How hard can it be to get at least some of them to help him out? Someone who managed to overtake basically the entire planet probably won’t be very squeamish to exploit his enemies’ strengths. I don’t think he’s a wizard, either. He hates magic too much and does everything to wipe it off the face of the Earth.”

Hermione briefly raised her hands. “Let’s leave this debate for another time. We need to hurry up a little. What I think we really should be talking about right now is what Mary told us regarding the man she’s dating. He’s high up in the Malleus’s food chain. We need to exploit that.”

“Agreed,” Daphne said, after casting the uncharacteristically silent Malfoy a nervous little look.

“We should definitely drive to the guy’s house, first, and get the lay of the land,” Rolf said.

Malfoy, who’d clearly been mulling things over, arms crossed and frowning, looked up. “This is way too convenient to be coincidental. We randomly catch the girlfriend of someone who answers only to Nox? What are the odds?”

“You’re saying they were sent here on purpose,” Luna said. It wasn’t a question. She exchanged a look with her husband. “Well, Hermione was shot on that bridge, so they know she’s here. It makes sense to assume they want to lure her out.”

“They probably put two and two together and are waiting for us,” Malfoy said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a trap.”

“Not necessarily. We aren’t the only witches and wizards still at large,” Daphne said, then made a face. “At least I hope that’s true.”

“It doesn’t even matter,” Hermione said, drawing all attention to herself. She shrugged. “We don’t have a better plan. This is it. Do I think that the enemy is planning an ambush? I have no idea. Maybe they are. But that doesn’t mean we’ll fail. We can still use the information we’ve got from Mary to our advantage.”

“I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but Granger has a point.” It was Malfoy’s turn to get stared at by the others. He gave each of them an irritated look. “What? We literally have no contingency plan. This is it. We can’t even run to hide in Wales anymore. Hogsmeade is a death trap. Who knows what’s going on inside Hogwarts. We’d never get anywhere near any of those places, and in Pansy’s camp, all hell’s about to break loose. We _have_ to move forward, trap or no trap.”

Grateful for the support, Hermione said, “Exactly. All we have to do is outwit them.”

“Out-trap them,” Daphne added.

“If it even is a trap,” Luna said. “It could still be a coincidence, you know.”

“Let’s presume it isn't.” Hermione covered her hot face with her chilly hands for a moment. “I think I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.” She looked squarely at Malfoy.

He only waved off. “Don’t hold back. I promise I won’t get the vapours. Besides, I’m used to bowing to the interminable wisdom of Granger the Messiah by this point.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and company leave Bexhill-on-Sea for London. The other side gets ready to welcome them.

 

 **1** **“You’re right, Granger: your infallible scheme to take over the world is pretty stupid,”** Malfoy was telling Hermione as they drove Mary Shelley’s patrol Jeep from Bexhill to Saint Leonards, where the nearest big supermarket was located. It was only a drive of about five miles, but even so, he was obviously nervous about venturing into a Muggle-dominated zone inside a Malleus vehicle.

Hermione didn’t know him all too well, she had to admit, but she did know him well enough to be able to tell that he tended to make even more rude remarks than usual when nervous or upset. She replied, “As you’ve told me at least three times already. It didn’t stop you from agreeing to go through with it, though.”

“No, it didn’t. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He was riding shotgun and looking gloomily out the passenger-side window at nothing in particular. Making a face, he adjusted the collar of his dark-green uniform jacket. It belonged to the male soldier whose face he’d burned off. They were roughly the same size. “Wearing this is weird enough, but having a switched-on magic suppressor in my pocket is even worse. Makes me want to claw my own face off. Can you feel it? Horrible.”

Well, of course she could. It was an odd sensation, like an itch buried deep under her skin, circulating through her blood. Not that that was an apt description, but no better words would come to her. She felt a little as if she were wearing the wrong skin, or as if she’d got a blood transfusion that wasn’t compatible with her body. It was as if her brain had been transplanted into something alien and artificial. Out loud, she said, “I feel it.” She shot him a sideways glance. Now that they were by themselves, it was the best time to talk about something he probably wasn’t going to react very well to. They _had_ to talk about it, though. “You’re still angry that we all voted to not use violence against people.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him glaring at her.

“Daphne voted _against_ that, if you care to remember, and for good reason: we absolutely cannot afford to cling to outdated concepts of morality. You don’t want to kill? Good for you. Our enemy will not extend you the same courtesy.”

“You’re right; they won’t. That’s true. We aren’t like them, though. We need to be better.” She stopped at a red traffic light and killed the engine. It was both a good and bad thing that out of the four of them, she was the only one who knew how to drive a Muggle car. She pushed back the sleeves of her own jacket. The shortest soldier’s uniform was still a little too big for her.  

“Desperate times and all that. Ever heard that one?” He threw up his hands, exasperated. “You want to play the heroine. I get that. Believe me, I’d love to be able to claim the moral high ground, here, but I can’t. None of us can. You want to be a freedom fighter and save what’s left of the wizarding world? You need to be willing to cross lines you didn’t think you’d ever be able to cross. You need to get your hands dirty. Maybe you even need to do things you’ll hate yourself for. That’s the price we _have_ to pay. If we’re not willing to do that, we might as well give up right now.”

The light turned green. She restarted the motor and drove on. The supermarket was just ahead. “If becoming murderers is the price for our survival, then how much right to survive can we even claim?”

“Oh, spare me the-”

“ _No!_ Answer me one question, Malfoy: if we become the monsters we’re currently fighting, then why do we deserve to live any more than they do? You of all people should know how it feels to be confronted with the option of becoming monstrous and refusing to do so – at great personal risk, I might add.”

As she drove onto the supermarket’s car park, he mulled her words over. Then, he said, in a much quieter tone, “I was sixteen years old back then and not capable of what I am capable now. Until then, I’d been a child with grand ideas of self-importance. I grew up. I know I’m not a killer by nature, but I am able to kill if I have to.”

“Yes, you did grow up,” she said, trying hard to ban the growing edge from her voice, “but you’re still not a murderer. As a teenager, you were an arrogant, snooty brat, yes, but you were also naïve and didn’t have any idea what being a Death Eater actually meant. The moment you were supposed to commit cold-blooded murder, you couldn’t. That’s a stable character trait of yours. It won’t have gone away.” She pulled into the nearest available parking space and killed the engine again.

A few seconds ticked by, during which they just sat there in stony silence.

Finally, he said, “I’ve killed people.”

“I bet it was in self-defence, and I also bet that it’s been robbing you of your sleep ever since.”

The look he gave her was both irritated and confused. “Why are you trying so damn hard to paint me as a better person than I am? You despise me, remember?”

She took her sweet time to answer. “I was a child, then, too. We all make mistakes. You were a horrible brat. I was obnoxious. We grew up. Clinging onto past mistakes is a waste of time, and odds are that we don’t have all that much time left.” She half-turned to look him in the eye. “You couldn’t kill Dumbledore because you knew that it was wrong. You couldn’t tell your parents and Bellatrix Lestrange that you recognised me, Harry, and Ron because you knew that it would mean our deaths. You didn’t like us by any stretch of the imagination, no, but you realised then that you didn’t want us to die. You are _not_ a murderer. If you try to kill this side of you off – this good side – then it will eat away at you and it will destroy you. Don’t do that. I don’t have to tell you that we all need each other in order to survive.”

He returned her look solemnly, before replying, “That’s a pretty speech, Granger, but I am what this world has made me. Can we go now? As you yourself have pointed out, we don’t have all that much time to waste.” Without waiting for an answer, he threw the door open and got outside.

Wordlessly, she followed. It was show-time.

 

* * *

 

 

 **2** **Being inside a giant Muggle supermarket was the strangest thing.** It wasn’t as if Hermione didn’t remember what it was like, having grown up in a Muggle household, but she hadn't willingly mixed with Muggles for a very long time. Besides, before the whole Nox debacle, interacting with Muggles hadn't constituted a risk to her life the way it did now. This felt just as unreal, just as unsettling as the time when she’d waltzed into Gringotts impersonating Bellatrix Lestrange. That hadn't turned out so well, even though in the end, she and her friends had got what they wanted.

She and Malfoy stepped through the automated glass doors into the small anteroom with the cash machines, the flower pots, and the donation-seeking veterans. Malfoy stopped short and glanced over his shoulder, at the doors. His eyes widened when the doors closed behind him again, only to re-open automatically as more shoppers came through.

Meanwhile, Hermione offered artificial little smiles to the Muggles who went by and pretended not to be nervous by her and Malfoy’s presence. Apparently, witches and wizards were not the only ones made apprehensive by Malleus soldiers. She grabbed Malfoy by the elbow and towed him along into the supermarket proper. It was a gigantic thing: bathed in white neon light, it sported a massive number aisles and even an escalator to a first floor where clothes and various household items were sold.

Compared to what Hermione remembered these places to look like, the aisles didn’t offer nearly as many options as before. Only half the checkouts were actually manned. The economy had been struggling even before everything had gone to hell for magic folk, but this was just depressing. She told herself to stop being dramatic. They were here because they had a job to do. “Let’s go,” she said, heading for the escalator.

Malfoy followed warily, glancing about himself with unmasked suspicion. He looked at the escalator as if it might eat him, but stepped onto it anyway when Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. Holding on so tightly to the handrail that his knuckles shone white through his pasty skin, he leaned in and whispered to Hermione, “Their stairs and doors move by themselves. Is this appropriated magic, too?”

She smiled a little. “No, that’s just plain old Muggle ingenuity. They call it ‘technology’, if you can believe it.”

“I can. The little fuckers are capable of anything.”

“So much for your erstwhile ideas of wizard superiority.” She neither could refrain from making that comment, nor did she want to.

He just gave her a cold look. “You’re right. Muggles are the best. They take such great care of themselves. And look at what they’ve done with the place. Truly, it is a marvel to behold.”

Sighing inwardly, she stepped off the escalator. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“I think we need to shop for you, first, because you don’t know anything about how to dress inconspicuously.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but only dragged him by the elbow to the men’s clothes section. “Something nobody would turn their heads over…”

“That might be an impossible feat, given it’ll still be me inside those clothes.”

She grimaced, said, “Yes. Well. I’ll better not comment on that,” grabbed a blue jumper off the rack, and held it out to him. “Try this on.”

It was his turn to make a face. “Not my colour.”

“Oh, don’t be a child. Just-“

A voice piped up right behind them: “Can…can I help you? Sir? Ma’am?”

Malfoy and Hermione exchanged a little look and turned around to a small, skinny, perhaps twenty-year-old boy who was wearing the shop’s uniform.

Hoping that she managed to come across as nonchalant and relaxed, Hermione said, “Er…yes. Well, my friend and I…we are looking for some, er… clothes. For a camping trip.” Wow. That had not exactly been smooth, had it?

The sales clerk gave her a doubtful look.

“It’s a sensitive subject,” Malfoy said, deadpan. “She thinks I should wear blue, but blue is _not_ my colour.”

“How about green?” The boy reached out, hesitated, pulled his hand back, breathed, and reached out again. His hand was trembling. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. He pulled the same kind of jumper from the rack and held it out to Malfoy, squinting a little as if expecting a punch in the face.

Watching the sales clerk with a somewhat disapproving look on his face, Malfoy snatched the thing out of his hands and scrutinised it, frowning. “Good enough to wear on a camping trip. How much stress can the fabric handle? I do _not_ want to spend any amount of money on something that’ll tear after one afternoon.”

Hermione only just managed not to look too approving. She had to admit, he had the snob routine down to a T.

The poor sales clerk shrank back a bit. “I…there’s a guarantee on it…and…and Malleus Deorum members get a discount.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Malfoy said, turned around, and strode off.

Hermione gave the sales clerk a wooden little smile. Why was she so bad at acting? She really should leave this part to the Pureblood supremacist who’d probably never had a conversation with a Muggle that had taken longer than thirty seconds. When she caught up with him, he was eyeing a pair of cheap trainers.

“Mug…people actually wear those?”

“You’d be surprised,” she returned flatly. “Ten quid. That’s not too shabby, all things considered. What size are you?”

He glanced at her sideways. “I don’t think we’re familiar enough with each other for _that_ kind of question.”

She stared at him, disbelieving. “You…you…honestly. _Honestly_.”

A couple of seconds passed before he smirked at her. “Lighten up, will you? You’re so stilted, you could pose as a storefront mannequin.”

“Just pick out some shoes. We’ve got more shopping to do and little time to waste.” Trying hard not to huff like a child, she spun around and marched to the women’s section.

 

* * *

 

 

 **3** **Sending Mary to get caught by the witches hadn't been the easiest thing to do,** but it had been necessary; besides, she’d agreed to do it right away. That was one of the things Josh liked most about her: Mary never complained. She never acted as if she were too good for anything. He never needed to order her to go anywhere or do anything. No, Mary was the type of officer who volunteered, who knew just what questions to ask, who could just somehow tell where she was needed the most.

She also let him crash at her apartment whenever he wanted, which was an added bonus. He’d told her once that his mom’s house made him somewhat uncomfortable and that that became somewhat overwhelming from time to time, and so, she let him stay with her without asking any questions. Other than was the case with Sarah the Terminator, Mary was talkative and loved trashy sci-fi as much as he did. Being in her company was easy and effortless. That was why he slept so well at her place.

Now, she was in the lion’s den, surrounded by vicious monsters, risking her life for the cause – risking her life because he had called her and asked her to. He was pretty sure that the sorcerers wouldn’t hurt her; after all, they needed her and the other soldiers in order to get into London. It was still one hell of a risk, though – one he wouldn’t ask just anyone to take. But Mary was a fine officer and a great person. He trusted her. She trusted him.

She would be fine. She had to.

He was in the office he disliked using, in the Palace of Westminster. It was a pretty huge, quadrangular room located just adjacent to the Peers’ Court. His rank being what it was, he could have claimed a bigger office at a more prestigious part of the complex, but this was big enough for one lone guy. Sometimes, people would accuse him of being affectedly modest, but that wasn’t the case at all. He just felt that too much luxury was wasted on him because he couldn’t appreciate it. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t appreciate beautiful architecture. He simply didn’t feel like hogging riches for no good reason.

As a kid, he’d visited all the tourist hotspots in London with his maternal grandparents. That had been pretty awesome; England had a venerable feel of historicity to its landmarks that the USA lacked. He liked being an American and loved the USA, but visiting his mom’s family had always been something very special. Those were memories he treasured.

Then, ten years ago, the unthinkable had happened, and suddenly, he’d inherited all this stuff he didn’t want, all this responsibility he didn’t feel he could handle. But he’d pulled through, and now, they were so close to achieving final victory – so close. In other parts of the world, witches were putting up a fight, as well, but most of them had already been eliminated. As soon as Nox got all the answers he needed from the few prisoners he’d kept alive, he would be able to get into the sealed-off schools and magic towns; then, those freaks would have nowhere to hide anymore. They’d be wiped out, and the world would be safe.

The tinny blare of his cell snapped him out of his moroseness instantly. He swivelled his chair away from his computer screen and took the call. “Sarah. Tell me something good.”

“ _As they say: I don’t make the weather. The news is good, though: the two patrol Jeeps are leaving Bexhill-on-Sea and are heading toward the capital_.”

He stared at the wall without registering it. “How many witches?”

“ _Five: two guys, three women_. _That’s what Mary told the Hastings outpost, at least._ ”

“She might’ve been coerced. There’s magic for that, I’m told.” He rubbed at his forehead. “It’d take too long to get CCTV footage and sort it out. No, we need to wait until they reach the first checkpoint before we can tell how many there are and what they’re up to.”

“ _Should we scare them a bit? Just so they don’t get suspicious_.”

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it. “No. Odds are, they already know that we’re luring them into a trap. Proceed as planned.”

“ _Okay. Anything else?_ ”

“Nope. Keep me posted, though.”

“ _Always do_.” She cut the connection. Not one for idle pleasantries, was Sarah.

Sighing inwardly, he dialled Nox’s number.

It rang once. “ _Talk to me_.”

Josh pushed himself up to his feet and started pacing. “The witches left Bexhill and are heading here. I told Sarah to stick to our plan. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“ _No. I think you’re handling the situation admirably. You will keep me informed of their progress, won’t you?_ ”

“Of course.”

“ _Good. I’ll talk to you later_.” After a couple of seconds, he added, “ _Oh, and see that you don’t skip any meals, stress or no stress_ ,” and hung up.

Josh smiled a little. It was good to know that there were people who cared about his well-being like that. Soon, the threat to them would be gone for good. That was all that mattered. He needed to keep his loved ones safe. He needed to do anything in his power to kill those that might wish them harm.

 

* * *

 

 

 **4** **The whole enterprise depended on one crucial factor:** that Hermione and the others be able to perform magic inside the patrol cars. Before they’d re-entered the house, Malfoy and Hermione had switched off the suppressors they’d nicked from two of the soldiers and used to infiltrate a magic-free zone; one could never know if the Malleus hadn't installed some insidious alarm system in the bigger supermarkets in order to root out wizards trying to conceal themselves from detection. On their way to London, however, the suppressors needed to be kept switched off, and the Jeep needed to be warded against probing. That was probably not going to hold up under close scrutiny, but they were all pretty convinced that they were going to be waved through the checkpoints, anyway. After all, this was most likely a trap, intended to allow them to free the ambered people at the Ministry.

“I sincerely hope they haven't figured out our scheme to outwit their scheme,” Rolf said, as he stored the bag with the newly acquired Muggle clothes in the boot of the Jeep he, Luna, and Daphne would travel in.

“Unlikely,” Malfoy said, checking the contents of his own bag one more time. “It’s all horribly convoluted. _No-one_ could figure this out.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Luna said, solemn. “It’s better not to think about the alternative, though. Negative thoughts attract the wrackspurts. As my dad would say, we need to remove all sources of distraction from our immediate area.”

Malfoy didn’t even look up when he said, “That’s what dancing naked through the woods on Beltane, looking for crumple-horned snorkacks will do to you.”

“I really think that where you’re going, there should be three of us and not two,” Daphne said, leaning against the doorframe that led from the garage to the corridor.

“No,” Hermione said, even though she would’ve preferred Daphne to come along, too. “You need to do your part at your post, which will be difficult, to say the least. Malfoy and I can handle this. It has to be the way we talked about.”

“We can handle this and we will,” Malfoy said, and squirmed his way past his sister-in-law to get the cursed soldiers out of the kitchen. “Everyone already knows what to do. Questioning the arrangement now isn't exactly the best of ideas.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. I worry about you,” Daphne said, frowning.

“He’ll be fine,” Hermione hurried to assure, before Malfoy could blurt out something tactless and insensitive. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Comforting, Granger.” He returned, the soldiers in tow. To them, he said, “All right, monkeys. You all know what to do. Don’t screw this up. I don’t care what Miss Bleeding Heart of the Century over here says: if you dance out of line, you’re dead.”

Without a word – no-one had made them speak – the soldiers got into their Jeeps.

The group just stood there for a moment in awkward silence.

Finally, Luna smiled at everyone in turn, said, “Good luck,” and climbed onto the backseat of one of the Jeeps. She was followed by Rolf.

Daphne just stood there, eyeing Malfoy, a wretched expression on her face. When he opened his mouth to say something, she suddenly put her arms around his neck and hugged him closely. After a moment’s hesitation, he gingerly put his arms around her waist. She kissed him on his haggard cheek, let go, and followed Luna and Rolf.

He followed her with his eyes, looking both solemn and a little embarrassed. A second later, he cleared his throat, said, “Granger, get moving. We haven't got all day,” and got into the other car.

Hermione didn’t have it in herself to make a snarky reply. They were family, Daphne and Malfoy. Maybe they’d never see each other again. This was no time for jokes. Wordlessly, she followed him.

A minute later, they were on the road. It was an uncertain fate they were heading towards, surely, but it was better than to just cower in some hole and rot. As they left Bexhill behind, she rolled the window open and breathed in a lungful of the cold breeze, eyes closed. For the first time in who knew how long, she wasn’t afraid. No, today, they’d finally find out whether they still had a future or not. There’d be no more uncertainty. Her thoughts turned to Ron. She didn’t make herself stop thinking about him, anymore, but she did focus on the good memories that they shared: their adventures at Hogwarts, their reconciliation after he’d stormed off in a huff during their hunt for the Horcruxes, their first kiss, their quiet days together, the love they had for each other.

She hoped that he was still alive. No, she _knew_ that he was still alive. Knowing that there was still a chance that she could save his life gave her strength. Their plan would work. It had to. She closed the window, brushed back some loose strands of her unruly hair, and said, “The weather’s awfully nice for a hostile takeover, don’t you think?”

Malfoy gave her a surprised look and then chuckled. “I would’ve preferred ominous thunder and rolling black clouds, but that’s just my penchant for drama speaking.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, smiling a little. “Sometimes, a bit of well-timed drama is just what a story needs.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **5** **The next esteemed guest on Nox’s list wasn’t quite as dear to him as the former Miss Black;** therefore, he didn’t meet this person in the Crimson Drawing Room, but in the King’s Closet. The chamber wasn’t as gaudy and shiny as the Drawing Room, but it did house a number of fine Italian Renaissance paintings. Nox himself wasn’t much of a museum goer, being a lot more interested in the older parts of the castle, but he believed the room’s venerable aura might impress the man he wanted to have a nice and cosy chat with. The weird thing was that before his take-over, he’d often pictured the wizard in question tossed in a dungeon, wasting away in deplorable, medieval conditions. It would have been no more than the wizard deserved. When the time came, however, Nox hadn't found it in himself to treat a person with such little dignity, especially someone of that wizard’s status. After all, his parents hadn't taught him to be a barbarian, had they? He’d never had the best of relationships with them, his siblings, or any of his relatives, but some of his education stuck with him no matter how hard he tried to leave it all behind.

For this wizard, he didn’t wait standing, though. Instead, he planted himself on the chair beneath the Lorenzo Lotto, a heavy book on his lap. It was a rather tattered copy of _Hogwarts: a History_.

Four guards escorted his guest, as they had with Narcissa.

Nox said, “You can leave. He won’t cause any trouble,” without looking up. To the wizard, he said, “Sit by my side.” It wasn’t a request, nor was it supposed to come across as one.

The wizard did so, albeit with obvious reluctance and loathing.

“ _Hogwarts: a History_. Did anyone apart from myself ever read this thing? I must’ve read it at least two dozen times, cover to cover. Do you want to know where I got it?” Nox closed the book, carefully placed it on the chair to his right, and turned left to smile at his guest.

“Not really, no.” Lucius Malfoy was, one had to admit, the perfect match for Narcissa Black, at least in terms of appearance: tall, thin, austere, sharp of eye, white-blond, and almost inhumanly handsome, he had an unmistakeable aura of royalty about himself. Well, he’d grown up as a noble, hadn't he? Yes, a noble of the highest tier, peering down at the other low plebes with cold disdain. Unlike his only son, Lucius was a bona fide murderer. He’d only switched sides during the Second Wizarding War because Voldemort had turned out to be an insane psychopath who was barely even human anymore.

“Not much of an enquiring mind, are, you, Mister Malfoy?” Nox shook his head. “Seriously, if I were in your position, I’d be eager to find out as much as I could about my enemy, so I could use it against him or her.”

“Over the past year, it’s become clear to me that you will never volunteer any information to me that might be valuable.” Lucius offered him a thin little smile. “Since I have been neither willing nor able to provide _you_ with a way of getting into Hogsmeade or Hogwarts, I must wonder how useful I still remain to you.”

“Not a bad question. At the moment, not much, but your wife is pretty adamant I keep you alive, and I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings without reasonable cause.” He returned Lucius’s smile, though his was much warmer. At least it felt that way. “She’s gonna help me crack wide open what is left of your world, you see. In exchange, I allow you and your son to live.”

Lucius’s pupils widened, but he kept the rest of his expression calm. “I don’t believe that you’ve caught Draco.”

“Not yet, but I will. If I’m not terribly mistaken, he’s on his way here at this very moment. Soon, he’ll be joining our merry little band.” He waited, but Lucius remained silent. “If your wife plays her cards right, then all three of you will be reunited. Now, wouldn’t that be lovely?”

“What do you want from _me?_ ”

None of these people were any fun. Nox leaned his head back, rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, and sighed. “All this hostility sucks the fun out of work, you know? Cheer up a bit. It won’t kill you.”

“Forgive me for not being entertaining enough for your exclusive tastes,” Lucius replied sourly, and sneered.

Nox waved off. “Forget about it. It’s in your purest of pure blood, isn't it? None of you aristocrats has a sense of humour. Too busy torturing hapless Muggles, I assume.”

Lucius’s brow creased a bit. “Who _are_ you? What are you? You can’t” – He paused; his expression because slightly nauseated – “you can’t be a wizard.”

“A wizard? Little old me? Nah.” Nox snickered, and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “No, Mister Malfoy, I am most definitely not a wizard. There’s not an ounce of magic in my blood. Someone like you wouldn’t even notice my existence if I hadn't given you lot a run for your money.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“About which I have zero fucks to give, dear boy.” He patted Lucius’s knee. “Take it or leave it. It means nothing to me.”

A look of pure nausea spread across Lucius’s face. It was as if he’d been forced to eat a bundimun. “You have a very peculiar way of expressing yourself.”

Somehow, that was almost enough to cost Nox his self-control. Weren't they all like this, these arrogant wankers? No matter how much time went by, no matter how much power he had, he simply couldn’t stop feeling like a helpless child when confronted with these damn…these _people_. “No. You simply don’t know what the real world even looks like, _you fucking racist!_ ” He balled his hands into fists. His face got hot like a furnace. He took a few soothing breaths, raised his hands in a calming gesture, and chuckled. “Sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. Not a fan of your ideology, matey boy.”

Lucius just beheld him coldly. “You seem a tad too old to me for juvenile outbursts.”

“I am. You’re right. Apologies. My intention is not to explode at you.”

“What _is_ your intention? I already told you that I won’t help you get into Hogwarts or any of the sealed-off magical locations. I won’t. More importantly, I can’t.”

“With a little help from former enemies, you will,” Nox said, and patted the side of Lucius’s face. “The question is, what do you value more: the lives of your wife and child, or your integrity as a Pureblood wizard?”

The icy glare made way for what just had to be Lucius’s version of rage: he blanched, pressed his lips together in a thin line, and narrowed his eyes. Then, after a few seconds, he regained control of himself and sneered again. “You will pay for this. I don’t know how long it’ll take and how difficult it’ll be, but you will pay. This I swear to you.”

Nox just looked back at him calmly. This was an impressive specimen and no mistake. Only the best for Narcissa, right? He wondered what their son must be like – probably the best of both worlds, so to speak. He couldn’t wait to meet him…that was, if Joshua didn’t lose his cool and flat-out murder the kid. “You may not believe me, but I believe you,” he said quietly, cupped Lucius’s face, kissed his forehead, and then slowly rose to his feet. “You are a credit to wizardkind, Mister Malfoy. I dearly hope I won’t have to kill you.”

Lucius stared up at him, fairly paralysed. “You’re insane.”

“No. I’m just something you’re incapable of understanding.” He headed toward the door the guards were waiting behind. They’d escort his guest back to his room. “Things will change for the better today; you’ll see. Soon, the whole world will see.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and company set out to London.

 

**1** **The trip to London took, under regular conditions, a bit over two hours.** It took a lot longer for regular travellers who had to stop at several more checkpoints than Malleus field operatives. The first of these checkpoints the Jeeps needed to stop at was just outside the tiny little village of Staplefield, off the A 23, at more or less the halfway point. The other ones would be closer together: the nearer they got to Central London, the tighter security would be.

“I know it’s a waste of time,” Malfoy said, about twenty minutes into the trip. They’d just passed Polegate. “I just can’t help myself.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione turned from looking idly out the window and faced him.

He’d flatly placed his hands on his knees and was frowning down at them. “Trying to figure out how any of this happened. One moment, we were still reeling from the whole Voldemort debacle – the next, the world got overtaken by some random Muggle who won’t even tell people his actual name. At first, I thought it was just a hoax.” He chuckled wryly. “Shows what I know.”

“And you believe it’s a waste of time to try to figure out how it all happened? It isn't. I know it sometimes feels that way, but it’s not. In fact, if we could understand where this Nox person came from and how exactly he managed to accomplish what neither Grindelwald nor Voldemort could, we might be able to find a way to defeat him.”

Strangely enough, she could understand Malfoy’s line of thought: racking one’s brain over the how and why of it all didn’t do anyone any favours if one didn’t have a single clue what do to about it Being paralysed by fear was never helpful. But the last thing she wanted was to play down his worries when he was actually sharing something with her without his usual sarcasm.

It probably was wiser not to wonder what had moved him to do so, either.

“Yes,” he said, “but I never gained any insights wasting my nights awake, wondering how the world went to hell this quickly.”

She tried not to smile, but couldn’t quite conceal it.

Apparently, he caught this from the corner of his eye, because he gave her a questioning look.

“It’s just that I was thinking the exact same thing just now,” she said, allowing the smile to spread across her face.

He arched one of his thin eyebrows, then chuckled again, this time with more mirth. “Imagine that. Not only do I constantly agree with you as of late, not only did I shop for clothes with you in a Muggle supermarket, no: now, we’re even having the same thoughts at the same time. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe we are familiar enough with each other for size questions.”

She made a pained face. “The world is ending, and you make… _that_ kind of joke.”

“You’re almost thirty, presumably married to Weasley, and you still can’t say it? Cute.”

“Just because I’m not filthy rich like you, it doesn’t mean I have to be vulgar.” She rolled her eyes, knowing fully well how obnoxious that was. “And I’ll just ignore the jab at Ron.” It was better, too.

Malfoy couldn’t be blamed; he had no idea what had happened to Ron. He half-turned to Hermione and scrutinised her intently. “He didn’t die, did he?” Was this an attempt at being tactful? How droll.

“No,” she said, looking straight ahead, “but I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Good. I don’t want to talk about him, either.”

An awkward silence ensued.

About five minutes or so later, he said, “Astoria got shot in the gut trying to wrestle a gun from a Muggle. She died a day later. There was nothing we could do. All we could do was watch her bleed to death, in horrible agony, in the woods. We hadn't found the beach house, yet.”

Oh, no. What on _Earth_ was she supposed to say to such a revelation? Why was he even telling her this? Then, it hit her. He was much more perceptive than she’d been willing to give him credit for and had clearly picked up on her distress. Now, he was…God, this was _so_ hard to believe. He was sharing something personal because he wanted to actually be nice for once. Malfoy. Being nice. The world really was about to end, wasn’t it? Of course, hers might be a wrong conclusion. Maybe she was just projecting, and he didn’t care either way. She didn’t think so, though.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” he said curtly.

It was more than she had expected, if she were to be perfectly honest. She made herself look at him again. “After all the horrible things you said to me when we were children, I counted you among the worst people I’d ever met. I never, ever wished you any actual pain, though – not really. I wouldn’t have sold you out to the Death Eaters any more than you sold us out, had our roles been reversed.”

“Yeah. Turns out, I didn’t want you lot dead, either. The things you learn.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I was wrong about many things back then. I’ll admit that openly. However, I still don’t think that allowing all the Muggle families of Mud” – He interrupted himself and cleared his throat – “of Muggle-borns into the wizarding community without taking precautions was such a brilliant idea, to put it mildly. For what it’s worth, though, I realise I was being a colossal wanker when I threw pointless insults at your head. Believe it or not, I actually am self-aware enough to know that you were almost as good at magic as me at school.”

For two seconds, she blinked at him. Then, she snickered. “How magnanimous of you.”

Eyes still closed, he smiled faintly. “I know. Aren’t I wonderful?”

“Wonderfully irritating – that’s what you are.” She snickered again and then sighed. “Oh, wow. Look at us. It only took the near-genocide of our kind for us to learn to be civil with each other.”

“There’s a good side to everything? Is that what you mean? Nonsense. I’d much rather still be home, enjoying my family’s fortune and a quiet life in the country, feeling like I’m better than everyone else.”

“I thought you didn’t want your life to be predictable.”

“That was before the world went to shit.”

“Hence the good side to everything: if the world hadn't gone to shit, you wouldn’t know how to appreciate what you used to have.”

He opened his eyes again, sat up straight, and squinted at her with unmasked suspicion. “Are you trying to be funny?”

“Trying and failing, apparently,” she replied, feeling almost bubbly. That had to be shock, too much adrenaline, or some kind of fight-or-flight-instinct side-effect. Who cared? It felt nice, not to be depressed and afraid. She leaned forward a bit. “Mary? Do you know how Nox managed to take over the world in less than five years?”

“It wasn’t less than five years,” Mary, who was driving, replied. She didn’t take her eyes off the road. Her comrade was sitting to her left, staring blankly ahead. “Before he struck, he set the stage for at least a decade. It took years of planning and a lot of hard work. Nox is a certified genius.”

“He’s not a wizard, is he?” Malfoy said, all good humour vanquished from his voice.

“Not that I know of. It’d be weird, wouldn’t it? I only met him once. He invited Josh to dinner and allowed a plus one to tag along.”

“How sweet,” Malfoy said, and rolled his eyes. He too knew very well how to be obnoxious.

Hermione, though, didn’t afford herself the luxury of disdain. They needed to gather as much information as possible. “What does he look like?”

“He’s cute,” Mary said, and briefly glanced at Hermione through the rear-view mirror. “Not too tall, very athletic, white, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Looks a bit Celtic, but is definitely English. I’d say from Kent, but I’m not a dialectologist, so I might be mistaken.”

“How old is he?”

Mary shrugged. “I don’t know. Mid-thirties to mid-forties. With some people, it’s really hard to tell. What I can say is that he looks like someone who spends a lot of time outside, hiking and cycling and stuff like that.”

“Does he have family we can kill?” Malfoy said, before Hermione had a chance. When she shot him a black look, he shook his head irritably. “What? She’s under the _Imperius_ curse and won’t complain. She won’t even remember anything if we obliviate her.”

Hermione was loath to admit this, but he had a point.

“I know he has family – parents and a sister – that he isn't on speaking terms with. He told me about a dead brother, too, who died in the early Eighties? Something like that. No specifics.”

“No names, either, right?” Malfoy said.

“No, sir.”

“Yeah, because that would’ve been way too helpful.”

“Every little soundbite can be important,” Hermione said, and briefly placed her hand on his elbow. She could understand his frustration: every time they got close to a breakthrough, it turned out to be nothing but vague trivia that didn’t seem relevant whatsoever.

He pointedly looked at his elbow, then at Hermione, then out the window again. In a somewhat mellower tone of voice, he said, “You’re right. At some point, we’ll find out something that actually matters.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Witches being witches, the ones who’d hijacked the patrol Jeeps were clever and devious:** they’d found a way to disable the magic suppressors inside the cars just as Nox had predicted, but not just that: they’d killed the GPS systems, too, so there was no telling where exactly they were unless they passed a security checkpoint. Josh knew that worrying was a waste of time, since it never helped solve a difficult situation and only served as a distraction, but he couldn’t help but be a little bit on edge. Yes, they were prepared for a whole bunch of eventualities and had set a clever trap for the sorcerers. However, those monsters were not only smart, but also desperate. Desperation could fuel all sorts of insanity. He himself knew that if he had nothing left to lose, he wouldn’t be afraid of sacrificing himself just to inflict the greatest possible damage on his enemies.

Ten years ago, what Nox called the wizarding community had not been nearly this desperate, and still, they’d gone to extreme lengths during their civil war, not caring about collateral damage amongst regular humans. As he sat in his office, Josh tried hard to suppress the urge to scratch the stinging scars on his chest. Ten years had gone by, and still, the pain he felt was raw and fresh, the memories sharp. This would never stop haunting him, nor did he want it to. His family deserved better than to be forgotten, than to not be mourned after a mere decade.

His thoughts turned to Mary, who was risking her life in order to save humanity from the threat of magic. It didn’t come as much of a surprise that the witches had managed to get rid of the GPS, but still, not knowing where the Jeeps were, not knowing where Mary was tore at his patience. Soon, they should be reaching the first checkpoint. There was no other way into London; all the country routes were either monitored or closed. Once they reached the first checkpoint, Josh would know more. He closed his eyes and pressed his fist against his chest. His parents and grandparents were dead, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a family anymore – a family that was now in peril.

When his cell phone blared its tinny ringtone, he sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils and flinched. He squinted at the caller ID and saw that it was Sarah. After taking the call, he didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Everyone in place?”

Sarah didn’t, either. It simply wasn’t her style to waste words. “ _That’s why I’m calling. Maisie and her people are at your house, as requested_.”

He leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his forehead. “It’ll take at least another hour and a half before they show up. Be sure that the area is cleared. I don’t want any civilians to get hurt.”

“ _I still think that’ll be too conspicuous_.”

“No. They don’t have much of a choice. They know about Mary and me and that there might be valuable intel at my place. They have to risk it.” He waited a few seconds, but so did she. “Besides, innocent civilians always constitute a risk to the success of any operation. They could be taken hostage and used against us.”

What he didn’t tell her was that Nox had made the same objections. He’d caved, in the end, when Josh had told him that the tactical disadvantages of risking civilians outweighed the illusion of normality. Besides, the witches probably knew they were being set up, anyway. They didn’t have a choice but to risk everything. They needed to get into the Ministry of Magic. They needed to free their people and to get their hands on whatever research had been done on the magic suppression system. Pretending that everything was hunky-dory and getting clueless civilians caught in the crossfire was not just horrible; it was also a waste of time and effort. The less people were left puttering around in close vicinity of the place, the better.

Sounding as calm and collected as ever, Sarah replied, “ _As you say. Are you watching the CCTV feed from the Staplefield checkpoint?_ ”

Unwittingly, he glanced at one of his computer monitors. “Nothing there, yet, but they should be showing up any minute, now.” His mind turned to Mary. All he could hope for was that she hadn't been hurt.

She was a good person and didn’t deserve to be used as pawn in this convoluted undertaking, but she had volunteered, and someone needed to do it. The thing was, Josh didn’t feel comfortable sending anyone into the lion’s den while he just parked his ass in an office chair, inside one of the safest buildings in the country. It had to be done, though, and Nox had told him that he couldn’t risk his life over everything, all the time. Josh was a captain. He had the responsibility of taking care of his subordinates. Sometimes, that meant keeping himself out of the line of fire and ordering people to their deaths. He might not like it, but he had a duty.

Still, if it were up to him, he’d be driving one of those Jeeps, not Mary.

That was when it finally happened: two black Jeeps rolled up to the Staplefield checkpoint. Briefly, he held his breath and bit his lower lip. Finally, they were getting somewhere. In a few hours, it would all be over, and then, they could focus on fixing their broken world.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **In all probability, they were being lured intentionally into London and would be waved through the checkpoints without the tiniest hiccup,** but still: when Mary drove the Jeep to the barrier and several armed soldiers started approaching the vehicle, Hermione’s heart picked up the pace; her stomach knotted. She pushed her rucksack, the one with the concussus in it, further under the seat with her feet.

Malfoy cast one look at her and made a face. “Let me handle this.”

She meant to protest, but he was the Dark Arts specialist, after all.

One of the soldiers approached the driver-side window and knocked against it with her knuckles. When Mary rolled the window down, the soldier cracked a smile at her. “Hey, Shelley. Caught yourself a bunch of freaks, did you?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. Both she and Malfoy were pretending to have their hands bound behind their backs. Both had their wands in hand. He was, of course, controlling both Mary and the soldier riding shotgun.

“They were hiding in Bexhill-on-Sea,” Mary said, and jabbed a thumb at the backseat. “Thought they could spread a little terror and get away with it.”

The soldier outside grimaced. “Always the same with those things.” She eyed both Malfoy and Hermione with visible contempt on her face. “And how human they look! Although no human has hair like the male one.”

It was all Hermione could do not to glance at Malfoy, but she could hear him gnash his teeth together.

Mary said, “Clearly, you haven't been in Scandinavia.”

“Still,” the soldier said, examining Malfoy up and down, “looks unnatural.” She waved off. “Whatever. Get them out of my sight and into whatever dungeon they’re thrown into in London. I really don’t care.”

“It’s need to know, anyway, Amina,” Mary said, laughing.

“Word.” Amina patted the side of the Jeep once and stepped back, nodding at the people in the relatively large, metal guard house. The barrier was raised.

Mary started the motor again and drove through.

Hermione exhaled deeply. She looked at Malfoy, who was glaring stoically ahead. She said, “That went well.”

“I really, really want to AK the lot of them.”

She leaned her head back. “I know you don’t care about my opinion, but I really don’t blame you.”

He looked out the window. The sun was breaking through the clouds. “Don’t think for one seconds that they don’t know we’re coming.”

“I don’t. But I won’t waste any time worrying about it. We’ve got a good plan – a desperate, but good one. It’ll work.”

“Since I don’t want to be a Negative Nancy, I’ll just agree with you.” After a short pause, he added, “Do you think they’re really alive in the amber? Potter and the Weasley girl?”

A small silence ensued. She thought about it, the way she hadn't allowed herself to think of it before. That was one of her most trusted survival tactics, these days: she focussed on the solution of a problem and wouldn’t even acknowledge the possibility that it might be too difficult to solve. “I have to believe it.”

He uttered a noise that was part snort, part chuckle, and half-turned in order to be able to look at her. “Well, in for a penny and all that. At the very least, we’ll spend a nice day in London. I haven't been there in ages.”

For a couple of seconds, she just frowned up at him, but then, she smiled. “This is me, brining adventure into your life.”

“Indeed,” he said, and looked out the window again. “You know, if this works out even remotely, I will never complain about how boring my life is again.”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **About two hours and fifteen minutes after the patrol Jeeps set out from Bexhill-on-Sea,** Joshua called to inform Nox had the witches and wizards were just about to enter the safe zone of Central London. Nox had watched the CCTV feeds from the several checkpoints they’d passed. One of the two wizards had definitely been Narcissa and Lucius’s son, Draco. The hair, the structure of his face, and the snooty, disdainful expression had been unmistakeable. The young witch next to him had been one Hermione Granger, prominent figure in the Second Wizarding War. She, the Boy Who Lived, and the Weasley kid had hunted and destroyed most of Voldemort’s Horcruxes. That definitely made her a famous figure among wizardkind, just as recognisable as Harry Potter himself. None of those three had been particularly remarkable by themselves, but together, they’d done incredible things. It was often the case, wasn’t it? People who were hailed as exceptionally gifted and extraordinary routinely disappointed expectations, whilst those deemed unimpressive turned out to be the ones who effected the greatest and most significant changes in the world.

For all of Voldemort’s powers, in the end, he’d been defeated by his own arrogant stupidity and blindness – hoisted by his own petard, as the saying went. It was a criminally moronic mistake to underestimate one’s enemies; it was even worse if one overestimated one’s own genius. He’d thought that by creating several Horcruxes and mutilating his own soul, he would then be immortal and invincible. In reality, this had only made him weaker. Being a three-dimensional person with wants and needs and feelings was not a weakness. It was an evolutionary advantage. Someone who could not feel empathy was blind to the human element. They couldn’t anticipate acts of love and kindness and self-sacrifice. They couldn’t adapt their behaviour to form genuine bonds of loyalty and friendship. They didn’t inspire love.

Sometimes, love could be used to manipulate others, even to blackmail them. That was another thing someone like Voldemort would never be able to understand. He’d reigned with an iron fist, using fear and terror to keep both his subordinates and enemies cowed. As was the case with all terrifying and absolutist dictatorships, his ended up crumbling into dust because he’d scoffed at the power of love, when the power of love was the most powerful element of all; it moved proverbial mountains and routinely changed the course of the future. Using love as a tool of manipulation and blackmail was, of course, a low blow and rather contemptible. Still, desperate times called for extreme measures – even things a person would otherwise shrink away from in disgust.

It was time to be a monster.

The King’s Dressing Room was less huge and gaudy than both the Crimson and the Green Drawing Rooms. From its dark-red walls, however, hung some of the most precious paintings in the Royal Collection. Nox had never been too much of a museum goer, no, but in his opinion, Renaissance paintings had an inescapable charm. When the guards brought Narcissa Malfoy into the room, he was standing in front of Pieter Breughel the Elder’s _Massacre of the Innocent_.

“Did you know that originally, this painting depicted the Biblical killing of the new-born children in Bethlehem? At some point, someone thought it was a good idea to mask its true intent.” He pointed at the painting, which now showed the sacking of a village. “I think that it’s interesting to think that beneath the surface of something already frightening, true horrors can hide undetected.” He spun around to the glaring Narcissa and beamed. “As heiress to the House of Black, you should know all about hidden horrors.”

“I you say so,” she said flatly. “I already told you that I’ll cooperate as long as you hold up your end of the bargain. It’s time to prove to me that you’re not just a liar.”

He briefly raised his hands. “Patience, please. I am a man of my word, believe it or not. In fact, just to prove to you that your harsh judgment is not entirely deserved, I’ll keep part of my promise before you have the chance to do the same for me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Must you always speak in riddles? It’s quite tiresome.”

“At least _I’m_ entertained, which is better than nothing.” That was when the door was opened, and in marched four more guards with another prisoner. Nox motioned behind Narcissa with a small wave of his hand. “See for yourself.”

It was a thing of beauty: Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy gawped at each other in silence, unmoving. Nox couldn’t see her face, but Lucius’s pale eyes grew wide. All colour drained from his face.

“Your son is on his way.” Both Malfoys stared at him. “Here’s proof.” From the pocket of his jeans, he pulled a folded sheet of paper: a printout of a still from the CCTV feed that clearly showed Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger inside a patrol Jeep. “Keep it if you like.” He handed the sheet to Narcissa, who snatched it from his hand as if she were trying to give him a papercut. “You have half an hour. Try not to do anything stupid. You wouldn’t like the consequences.” With that, he left the room, followed by his guards, and left the happy couple alone – more or less, of course. There was no need to get careless. This was a leap of faith in the best of cases. He wasn’t worried, though – not really. He already knew how everything was going to turn out.

They would have no choice but to agree to cooperate.

Now, all he had to do was outwit Draco and his little buddies, catch them, and then the Malfoys would be working for instead of against him. Then, he’d finally be able to get what he really wanted.

It was all so close. Nothing could go wrong. Nothing would go wrong. He would see to that.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and company arrive in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, my self-imposed hiatus is over now. -_-

 

**1** **As the Jeep drove past the last checkpoint and into Central London,** Hermione was silent. She didn’t know precisely whether she was awestruck, solemn, or just fatalistic, but she couldn’t think of a word to say as the growing traffic and run-down buildings rolled past her. It wasn’t as if she felt nervous or anything. No: her heartbeat was steady, her breathing calm, her hands warm. None of this felt all that _real_ , if she were to be perfectly honest with herself. It wasn’t exactly dreamlike, either, like it was in the books. The reality was just that she was detached from her emotions. Was it some sort of shock? A coping mechanism? Denial, perhaps? It didn’t matter – not really. Whatever the cause, at least she didn’t run the risk of panicking right now. Knowing the reason for this wouldn’t make a difference, anyway, at least not at the moment.

That didn’t mean that it didn’t bug her: not knowing why she was in a certain state of mind. Ron would poke fun at her control freak tendencies again. He’d say that she couldn’t even tolerate having an emotion without doing research about it, first. She’d then retort that he’d have to learn how to spell the word before being in any position to judge her. Neither of them would mean any insult. It was just a game they liked to play. Used to play. Used to. Might never again. Maybe something had changed since Pansy’s late call. Maybe Pansy had lied about his condition being stable just so that Hermione wouldn’t be distracted. Maybe Ron wasn’t safe, being looked after by Bill and Fleur at all. Maybe he wasn’t even ali-

_No_. No thinking that. Not now. Not until she had no other choice.

Her stomach cramped a little, threatening to crumble her defences. She smiled a little. Good. If they should fail today, she’d at least not die heartless.

“I never visited Muggle London,” Malfoy said, in a quiet, dry tone, dragging her out of her quiet, broody fatalism. “My father took me to the Ministry a number of times when I was a child. I went there by myself after the whole Voldemort debacle, naturally, but always via Floo network or Apparition – never like this.”

She didn’t look at him. “And? Any epiphanies?”

“Epiphanies?” He sounded vaguely amused. “No, nothing quite that dramatic. But I have to admit, I would’ve liked to have seen this place before…before all _this_. I assume it looked less run-down?”

“Less run-down, less miserable,” she said. “When the blame for all the pollution and unemployment is directed at magical folk instead of, you know, the things that actually caused them, then it becomes impossible to solve the problems. Look at the world: it’s going down the drain. Let’s take away magical people’s right to exist. Everybody needs to make sacrifices, right? Because cause and effect aren’t important. No, the pitchfork and torches approach makes so much more sense.” She pressed her lips tightly together and shook her head in disgust.

A small moment passed in silence.

Finally, he said, “You _cannot_ fathom how glad I am that you chose not to preach to me about our lost connection to Mother Nature or whatever.”

Despite herself, she had to snicker. “That’s just me, consideration incarnate.” She took in the sights with a heavy heart: the cracked pavement, the brownish-grey exhaust fumes of the permitted vehicles, the badly-maintained buildings, the pedestrians who kept their heads down. This gloomy, seemingly hopeless situation hadn't come about quickly, but had crept up on them over a long period of time. Change never happened over night. Things took a turn for the worse gradually, over many years: one economic crisis or two, a few bad decisions by the higher-ups, and the disaster seemed inevitable. “It wasn’t all that amazing before Nox took over, either. There was a lot wrong with the world even then.”

“As you never tired of reminding everyone – over and over, _ad nauseam_ , _ad infinitum_.” After a short silence, he added, in a much less caustic tone of voice, “I do wonder what happened to all the House Elves.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Me, too.”

From the driver’s seat, Mary said, “We’re getting close to our first destination.”

“Good,” Malfoy said, “I was starting to contemplate the great beyond back here.”

Under the circumstances, suicide jokes were so unfunny, they almost became amusing again – almost.

Hermione thought about making a ‘show-time’ comment or something to the same effect, but decided against it. Snappy one-liners had never been her forte. “This will work,” she said, instead, almost automatically. “It has to.”

“Of course it will,” he said, sounding just as convinced as she felt. “After all, we’re the masterminds behind this dastardly scheme. If the universe doesn’t fold in on itself out of sheer awe, then there’s no justice in it.”

Again, she smiled a little. “Good thing neither of us has bloated ego or anything.”

“Exactly.”

Mary pulled into a smaller lane behind one of the few big department stores still in business. “There are cameras everywhere in this building – in the whole city. There’s one right above us, too. They’ll be onto you in a _second_. The Jeep will already have been identified on CCTV. There is no escape. There is no hiding. You’ll be caught.”

“Oh great, now I have to listen to tips from a Muggle,” Malfoy said, scratching his forehead, sounding almost comically put upon.

“Sh,” Hermione made, and then addressed Mary, “Just do what we told you and stay quiet, all right? Everything will be fine. This’ll all be over sooner than you think.”

“Granger, stop mollycoddling these…these _people_. It’s a waste of time. Once this is over, they won’t even remember anything, anyway.”

“It doesn’t hurt to be polite.”

“Go back in time and tell that to your Hogwarts self.”

It was all she could do not to give him the finger. She did grimace, though. “This isn't helpful, you know. We need to focus and work together, not snipe at each other.”

“True. Apologies.”

“What we _do_ need now, more than anything, is for our distraction to work,” Hermione said, gathering herself. “Everything depends on it.”

“The only way to pull off a magic trick,” said Mary, half-turning to smile at Hermione, “is to get the audience to look where it isn't happening.”

“Charming, Muggle. As if you could ever hope to come up with a plan half this viable. Not to mention that if we still had magic, we wouldn’t need to do any tricks,” Malfoy spat with no small amount of contempt.

“Which is the entire point,” Hermione said, willing him to keep his cool. She took a deep breath, told herself to focus, and collected herself as well as possible under the circumstances. Snappy one-liners might not ever have been her forte, but remaining level-headed in times of stress luckily was. She turned to Malfoy. “You get the bag out of the boot. I’ll take care of the camera pointing at us. Once we start, we’ll only have a very limited amount of time until-”

“ _Yes_ ,” he cut in irritably, “I’ve heard it the first five million times. It’s not alchemy, Granger. I am _perfectly_ able to-”

“Then what are you waiting for? Time is of the essence.” Two could play that game. She returned his death-glare squarely. “Well?”

“Who am I to disobey orders from General Know-It-All herself?” He sounded less angry than he was clearly trying to be, though. “I’ll only be a second.” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the Jeep’s door to his left open and jumped outside, light-footed.

This was it. There was no more margin for error left.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **When Sarah called Josh to update him on the progress of the patrol Jeeps,** she reported something rather odd: instead of heading for the Ministry and his house, like expected, the cars were being driven around the city, seemingly without a specific route in mind. The witches were on the respective backseats, quiet and calm, and the soldiers appeared unharmed. What the hell were they up to? Obviously, they’d concocted some kind of scheme to try to throw the good guys off their track. Maybe they even believed that they could shake surveillance by driving around erratically. If that was their plan, it was doomed to failure; there were CCTV cameras everywhere in Central London. Their number had almost doubled over the past five years. One could never be too careful.

Josh didn’t believe that the witches were this stupid, though. Of course, desperate times and all that, but this would be simply way, way too silly a hope to entertain. It wasn’t as if they had much choice, sure: they absolutely needed to try to free their ambered friends; they absolutely needed to try to get any scrap of information about Nox they could find. Therefore, it was only logical to assume that they would head to the Ministry and to Josh’s house. It made sense. They didn’t have any other options, in the end.

_However_. However. If everything was this cut-and-dried, then why couldn’t he rid himself of the nagging suspicion that something horrible was going to happen? Something none of them had foreseen?

Because that was what always happened when he was forced to stay out of a situation and only monitor it, instead of throwing himself into the thick of things.

Standing in his dumb fucking office, he ran his fingers through his hair, closed his eyes, and blew out a heavy breath. Enough of this. He needed to calm the hell down and learn not to micromanage every little thing. His people had the situation under control. Yes, there was risk involved, but if they all kept their cool, it would turn out fine. Soon, they would have the means to wipe every last trace of magic from the face of the planet. Then, and only then, humanity would be safe. All Josh needed to do was keep his marbles and not panic. The plan to outsmart and catch the sorcerers was sound. It would work. It had to. It just _had_ to.

Everyone was in place. All the necessary measures had been taken. Civilians had been evacuated from the vicinity of the Ministry of Magic and Josh’s house. Security around Windsor Castle was as tight as ever. There was nothing those monsters could do that the good guys weren't prepared for twice over.

But then again, desperation led to boldness, and a cornered animal was always the most dangerous.

He grabbed the edges of his heavy desk as hard as he could, concentrating on the feeling of the mahogany cutting against his palms. The scars on his chest were itching, sweat was pearling on his forehead, nose, and neck, and his back hurt from standing around way too much. He tried to get his thoughts away from all that, to clear his mind, to work through the tide of rising panic that had acid slosh in his stomach and ice-water shoot through his veins. The problem was, fear made him angry, and when he got angry, he got stupid. Everybody did. It was only human. Right now, though, it would be a hindrance, which was probably one of the reasons Nox had ordered him to stay the hell away from the streets today.

As they always did in situations such as these, his thoughts wandered to his parents. If only they hadn't decided to come over, back in 1998. If only they’d ignored the pleas of his mom’s sister, who’d claimed that her life was in danger for some undisclosed reason. If only they’d stuck to their plan of staying out of whatever weirdness had been going on in the UK at that time. If only, if only. If wishes were horses.

But they hadn't stayed away, and now, his parents were dead, along with all of his extended English family.

Something like that could never happen again – never.

How could he do _anything_ while trapped in this ridiculous, pompous office, all by himself? What sense did that make? He should be out there, coordinating the surveillance, trying to find the witches, making sure that Mary got out alive and in one piece! Sarah, for all her competence, couldn’t be trusted not to make a call that would end in collateral damage. She was way too good at seeing the bigger picture and ignoring the feelings of the individuals involved. She’d sacrifice Mary in a heartbeat, and Mary was smack in the eye of the storm!

No, Josh couldn’t just stand here like a douche, waiting for shit to unfold, twiddling his thumbs and hoping for the best. He _couldn’t_. Quickly, he pushed himself away from the desk, wiped sweat from his face, grabbed his car keys and phone, and strode toward the door.

That was when the phone rang.

Of course, it was the boss-man himself. Dude had an uncanny talent for catching Josh when the latter was about to do something dumb.

Suppressing an irritated and uncalled-for sigh, he took the call. “Yes?”

“ _A bit tetchy, are we? Well, small wonder. Say, you weren't planning on abandoning your post, were you?_ ”

“No.” That sounded so dishonest, Josh cringed and scratched his forehead. He ambled back to the windows and looked outside without actually taking any of the scenery in. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“ _It’s okay. I understand; believe me, I do. But this is all for the best, Joshua. I really need you to do as I say_.” Nox sounded amiable enough, but there was an undertone to his usually so pleasant voice. What was this? Anger? No, not quite. Uncertainty.

Oh, God. It was uncertainty. He sounded like he wasn’t entirely sure anymore that they would win.

Josh’s stomach churned. He felt a little ill. Maybe he was only projecting. Probably. Yeah. He was being silly, because being stuck made him cagey. He pressed his fist to his lips and cleared his throat. “What happened?”

“ _I know I can’t expect you to stay glued to the computer screen and take in all of the footage all at once, which is why I’m sending you a link. Go ahead and check it out, as your people’s vernacular goes._ ”

He did so immediately. The damn thing took a moment to load the feed in question, during which Josh drummed on the desktop with the fingertips of his free hand. Finally, the video clip had been loaded. “I see it.” It was from a CCTV camera in some alleyway. Behind a department store? Yes, he…oh. A black Jeep rolled up directly under the camera. Through the windshield, he could see Mary on the right-hand side, behind the wheel. On the backseat were two shadowy figures: the sorcerers. For a moment, they just sat there calmly. Then, one of the backseat windows were rolled down. On the other side, a door was opened. “I see it. I…” He trailed off as the scene played out before his eyes. His expression went from anxious to disbelieving to aghast in a matter of seconds. “Aw, crap.”

“ _That’s why I called. I didn’t want you to see this and run off blindly to save your girlfriend. You need to stay put_.”

Josh balled his free hand into a fist so tightly, his fingernails dug into his palms. His face felt hot like a furnace. “ _What? Are you fucking serious? How can you expect me to_ -”

“ _Joshua. Calm yourself. There is no need to shout at me_.”

With a trembling, clammy, icy hand, he wiped across his sore eyes. “God, I’m sorry.” What the hell was even _wrong_ with him?

“ _I understand that you’re frightened. Please don’t believe for one second that I don’t feel your pain, that I don’t care about what might happen to Mary and the others. I care. But rushing out in a panic simply will not do_.” He waited, but Josh was too busy biting his tongue to reply. “ _I have a plan. Everything is under control. Now more than ever, I must ask you to trust me._ Trust _me, Joshua. Can you do that?_ ”

At that moment, Josh felt deflated, somehow, hollow and drained. He leaned back and closed his eyes. His head was pounding. He had a sour taste in his mouth. When had he last taken a sip of water? He had no clue. “Of course I can, man. I’m really sorry for snapping at you like that. You don’t deserve it. I was being a jerk.”

“ _There’s no need to apologise. You have every right to be upset. All I ask is that you control your impulses and stick to the plan we’ve so carefully crafted. Everything is under control_.”

“Okay.” Christ, even his voice sounded like the batteries on a Walkman were running low: slow and slurry. “I’ll do my job.”

“ _I know you will_.” And there it was again, the smile in Nox’s voice. “ _I’ll talk to you soon_.” With that, he hung up.

For an interminable moment, Josh just sat there, worn out and feeling a million years old. Then, he blew out a heavy breath, ran his hands through his hair, sat up straight, and replayed the footage he’d been sent. There was work to be done.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **They had to work so fast, it almost was like – ha, bloody, ha – magic**. Hermione wasn’t a crack shot or anything quite as dramatic, but from that distance, there was no missing the CCTV camera. Once that was done, they’d only have a moment to disappear into the building – into the masses that’d be by the doors at the sound of a gun firing and the sight of a Malleus patrol Jeep.

Malfoy all but jumped out the car to get their gear out of the boot.

Hermione aimed at the camera and fired. The whole process was difficult, sluggish, heavy. The bang of the shot bounced off the stone walls and hit her ears again, making her flinch. Camera was still there. Damn it! She aimed again, fired. Went wild. Ricochet blasted a window. There were screams close by, shouts. No, no, no.

“ _Granger!_ ” Malfoy’s voice came from behind the car.

Mary and the other soldier were still, as ordered, waiting.

Hermione needed to stay calm, calm, calm. She closed her eyes, breathed, opened them again, aimed, fired. Bullet nicked the camera. Thing spat sparks, black smoke. Close enough.

Malfoy, rucksack on back, yanked open the passenger-side door. “ _Come on! Now! We got to go!_ ”

There were already sirens approaching. It’d only take seconds for the people in the department store to realise where the shots had been coming from.

With trembling hands, Hermione stuffed the gun into her own rucksack, shouldered it, took the hand Malfoy offered her, and stumbled after him into the confusion inside the department store.

Behind them, Mary restarted the Jeep’s engine and drove off, illusions of both Malfoy and Hermione on the backseats. The illusions wouldn’t last, and they were running out of time. But they were a short distraction – a trick.

Hermione just hoped that Luna’s group was doing fine – well, and the others at the camp in Wales. She hoped that Ron was safe and that he could find the strength to hold on just a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **Miss Hermione Granger had a bit of a reputation in wizarding circles.** It wasn’t much of a mystery why, really: she was smart, courageous, inventive, tenacious. She had been part of what had once been dubbed the Golden Trio: the three teenagers who’d played a major part in ending Voldemort’s reign of terror. So it wasn’t really any wonder that she’d be involved in countering the so carefully laid out trap designed to defeat her. Of course, she had to be aware of the fact that the entire plan hinged on her and Narcissa’s kid being allowed to free the people trapped in the amber. None of them had any choice but to walk straight into the lion’s den. But it would be foolish to assume that any of these wizards and witches would run into said trap blindly, without some kind of plan. It would be a plan of desperation, of course, but a plan nonetheless – a plan concocted by one of the smartest witches around.

Even now, with all the cameras and magic suppressors and armed soldiers he had at his disposal, Nox knew that much could still go wrong – so much. Well, he did know a few things his enemies didn’t. He certainly had a few tricks up his sleeve that the esteemed Miss Granger and her friends could not anticipate. It wasn’t so much that he was worried that this day would end badly for him; no, that wasn’t it. However, being mindful of the hubris of people like Gellert Grindelwald and Tom Marvolo Riddle, he constantly reminded himself that overconfidence killed the cat a lot more often than curiosity ever could.

When he saw footage of the Malleus Jeep parking just under a CCTV camera, he knew immediately that this was deliberate. It was clever, too. After all, Granger and the Malfoy kid had no option but to cast the _Imperius_ curse on poor Mary Shelley and her comrades, which meant that Mary could then tell them all about the best spots in the city to disappear into the crowd – if that was what they were trying to do.

True to form, Granger took out the camera just as little Draco exited the car. It was impossible to tell how exactly they planned to mingle, given the fact that especially Narcissa’s son had a particularly conspicuous look about him, but shooting the camera gave them a moment. Smart. It was no less than anyone who was in any way familiar with these people should expect.

At least Joshua was not going to throw a spanner in the works by being his usual, psychotically irascible self – for now.

No, nothing would go wrong today. The wizard kids (and God, none of them were even kids anymore! How time flew by!) would break those trapped inside the Ministry of Magic free. Then, Nox would finally get his answers. He’d finally find a way to get inside Hogwarts.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy and company prepare the camp for their last hurrah. Hermione and Malfoy do their best to keep their enemies guessing. Daphne, Luna, and Rolf are in the wind.

**1** **The afternoon was already wearing on when preparations at the Welsh camp were done.** Now, the only thing left to do was drawing all the attention they could and hope that it would cause some mayhem amongst their enemy. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, this was one of the last pockets of magic left in Britain – the perfect place for their last hurrah, really. They shouldn’t kid themselves on that front, either: this _was_ going to be the end, one way or another. There were exactly two possibilities available to them: a) they’d die during this sorry little manoeuvre, and b) they’d be forced to flee yet again. Odds were, alternative b wouldn’t pan out so hot, especially because Brecon Beacons was the only place they’d found to hide after Merthyr Tydfil stopped being an option. Bexhill-on-Sea was overrun now, London was the lion’s den personified. Where else could they go? What else could they do but at least try to drag down as many of those Muggle wankers as they could?

All that being said, Pansy had absolutely no intention of kicking the bucket. Life had become an endless parade of bleak misery, yes, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it anymore. No, she planned to live, and she planned to see Weasel the Younger healed, so she could brag to him how heroically she’d fought to save his sorry behind, whilst he’d just lounged about uselessly.

There was, in the end, only one place they could all flee to – theoretically. In all probability, trying to Apparate there would end in horrible death for everyone involved. Even if it didn’t, and they by some miracle managed to get inside that place, they wouldn’t be able to get out again. That much, everyone knew; it had been one of the last official measures taken by the Ministry of Magic before the catastrophe. This had been done in order to protect the secrets within, not as a refuge for the desperate.

So the choices were between dying and probably dying. Could be worse. There was always a bright side and all that blah-blah. Whatever. It was way too late to back out, now, anyway.

As she and the remaining wizards and witches (and weren't they a pitiful, ragtag little band these days? It was ghastly) gathered at the centre of the camp, she found herself standing right next to an eerily calm and composed Callidora Selwyn.

“We’ve packed our bags with whatever needful supplies would fit in them,” Callidora said, not looking at Pansy. She was checking the first line of traps they’d laid for the Muggles – above the floating rocks, in case those shitheads decided to firebomb the hell out of this beautiful, wild landscape. “Once we’ve Apparated, they’ll need to last.”

“If it even works. It probably won’t.”

“Now there’s the patented Pansy Parkinson optimism we’ve all grown to love and cherish.” Callidora glanced at her, smiling. “Relax, dear. It’ll work. We’ll be able to get in.”

“Never to get out again,” Pansy said, wiping sweat off her nose with the back of her hand.

“Your friend Draco and the Granger girl are smart. They’ll free the trapped folks at the Ministry, who’ll then devise some miraculous means of saving us. After all, the famed Chosen One is slumbering in the amber, waiting for a chance to play magical messiah once again, isn't he?”

Despite her churning stomach and light head and overall sense of pending apocalypse, Pansy had to snicker. “Once Saint Potter’s out and about again, how could we _ever_ fail?”

“Indeed.” Callidora patted Pansy’s shoulder. “Also, you shouldn’t forget that you’ve still got a declaration of love to make to a certain special someone.”

Feeling like a right moron, Pansy looked down at her worn-out, filthy shoes. She put her hands to her skinny waist and harrumphed. “Yeah. That.”

“It’s as good a reason to soldier on heroically as anything else.” She turned to face Pansy, a genuinely friendly expression on her haggard face. “We all need something to hold onto, love – every single one of us.”

“I suppose you’re still not willing to share what _you’re_ holding onto?”

Callidora’s smile turned mischievous. “Maybe once we have some room to breathe.”

That was when Patil came running. She skidded to a halt right in front of Pansy. “We’re all set.”

Pansy nodded curtly. “Great. Let’s set this place alight.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **2** **Even in this day and age, shootings on the streets caused fear and chaos.** That was the tiny window that Hermione and Malfoy had to slip into the crowd and disappear. In the ten or so seconds that he’d had whilst she tried to shoot the CCTV camera, he’d changed his jacket for the green jumper and had covered his rather conspicuous hair with a baseball cap. The rest of the new clothes was in the rucksack he was now carrying on his back.

Hermione, carrying the concussus, had covered her head with her own jumper’s hood and was keeping her head down as she hurried after Malfoy, together with a crowd of frightened Muggles, toward the other exit – the one at the other side of the building. No-one was looking at them. No-one was paying attention. Everyone had their heads down, minded their own business, made sure they got out of the way as quickly and safely as possible.

With the switched-on magic suppressor in her pocket, Hermione felt itchy, ill, like she was crawling with ants all over her body, on her skin and inside it, too. Her heart was beating more quickly and her hands were shaking, but still, she was nowhere near losing composure. There was never any use in panicking, but most of the times, a person didn’t really have much choice. Luckily, this was one of Hermione’s strengths. She let herself be carried by the sea of people, forward, toward the exit, going no quicker or slower than anyone else.

Then, it was done. Malfoy marched through the automatic glass door, into the bleary afternoon light, and she followed him. They turned left, walked on, steadily, away from the department store, away from the commotion. The sirens that they’d heard approaching were really close now, but behind them. At the next best opportunity, Malfoy crossed the street, veered left, went on, left again, right, away from certain capture.

The fact that he was walking ahead, even though he had no clue where the hell he even was, made the situation morbidly comical.

That was when she realised that they were heading toward the Thames, close to the Palace of Westminster. Well, there were boatloads of tourists there, crappy situation or no, where they could walk undetected for a while and then find a public toilet to change in and dump the rest of their old clothes.

She jogged a bit and caught up with him. “That went remarkably well.”

“Swimmingly,” he said, keeping his head only slightly down, so as to avoid detection via CCTV cameras. “It’s harder than it looks, isn't it? Hitting a target with a Muggle firearm.”

“Much harder.”

“You didn’t break your fingers or anything?” Was that concern? Probably just sensibleness.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Good. Because we can’t heal broken bones around here, and you’re the one who knows best how to operate the miracle machine.”

That was true. In an attempt to avoid a bad fiction trope, she’d of course shown him and the others how to operate the concussus in an emergency, even though she was the only one who knew how to repair it. There’d been no time to give anyone a crash-course in desperate mechanics, as Malfoy had put it back in Bexhill.

Great. Now she was starting to sound like him in her own internal monologue. It was high time they got this whole business over and done with.

They crossed the busy street and lowered their pace as they started walking past the Palace of Westminster, though on the other side of the street. There were soldiers everywhere, so the best thing to do was go on as inconspicuously as possible. Just a few years ago, a civilian would have been able to actually walk up to the Palace in order to make close-up pictures of Big Ben or whatever suited their fancy. A few violent incidents and proclamations of martial law later, and the whole building was cordoned off and protected by dozens of heavily armed soldiers.

Hermione had to admit that the sight of this was more painful than setting eyes on the ocean again after years on the run. Unwittingly, she thought of her, Ron, and Harry’s escape from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, right after the Death Eaters had taken control of the Ministry of Magic. Everything had been horrible back then, and for the first time, she’d actually felt disoriented as she and her friends tried to hide from their enemies in the heart of the capital. But even during their darkest hour, none of them had ever dreamed that one day, magic itself might be tottering at the brink of extinction. 

Telling herself to knock it off with the doom and gloom, already, she said, “Slow down a bit. Pretend you’re taking in the scenery. We’re not fugitives; we’re tourists.”

“Yeah. Right. Right.” With obvious reluctance, Malfoy slowed down as they started crossing the bridge over the Thames toward the London Eye.

That was a little amusing, wasn’t it? The world was being flushed down the drain, magic was being eradicated all over the globe, but hey! At least the giant Ferris wheel was still working. As usual, masses of people were queueing in front of the thing, waiting for their turn patiently. The only difference to how things used to be was that everywhere, there were armed soldiers and even more CCTV cameras. Lovely. People’s capacity to ignore deteriorating global conditions was nothing short of amazing. But that was just everyone’s innate wish to believe in a just world. If they could still take a holiday and visit big cities, then things must not be that bad, right?

Again, she could have slapped herself. Honestly. Giving into whiny internal monologues wasn’t going to help anyone. Once they’d turned left and walked passed the London Eye, she said, “There’s public toilets to our right. With so many people bustling about, we won’t get a better chance.”

“Yes. All right.”

She couldn’t exactly blame him for being tense. After briefly wondering whether she should make some something reassuring remark, she just said, “Okay. Come on,” and left it at that. Things were awkward enough, and she’d never been any good at giving pep talks.

As if they belonged there, the terrible magic suppressors in their pockets, they headed into the public toilet to change. It would be the last moment they’d get to catch their breaths before the great plunge.

 

* * *

 

 

 **3** **The good thing about a public toilet at a tourist hotspot was,** no-one paid attention to people who didn’t do anything noteworthy of attention. No-one cared about a young woman who spent about five minutes locked in a stall, because no-one even realised that that was the case. No-one knew Hermione around here. Well, to be fair, not many people were left that knew her anywhere. Almost everyone she’d ever met was long gone.

Now, it was time to save the ones who were left. That was, as far as she was concerned, the preferable option over ineffectually bemoaning her fate any day of the week.

As quickly as possible, she dug the plastic bag, mirror, and scissors she’d got at the supermarket out of her heavy rucksack. She stopped herself from heaving a theatrical sigh and got to work, chopping off most of her long, bushy hair. It didn’t need to look pretty. It just needed to look different. Not that this would fool anyone who scrutinised her too closely, but it only needed to work for a few hours. She and Malfoy didn’t require much time. It wasn’t as if they had much of that to spare, anyway. The whole scheme depended on their ability to get into their first destination undetected. The way out wasn’t that much of a problem – at least that was what she hoped.

As quickly yet thoroughly as possible, she gathered what hair hadn't gone into the plastic bag as she’d been cutting it, wrapped it, and stuffed it in the luckily only half-full bin. She changed her ratty sweater and jeans for the one she’d bought at the supermarket in St Leonards-on-Sea, pulled a grey beanie sporting a crochet flower on its side over her mangled haircut, put on a pair of plastic sunglasses, stuffed the old clothes in the bin, as well, and exited the stall as if she were up to nothing suspicious at all.

At one of the sinks, she took a good look at herself. There was always a perceivable difference between a person with short hair or a person who’d just stuffed their long hair into a hat. Not only wouldn’t this beanie hold her hair in its long state in a million years, but somehow, the shape of her head looked different to her. She looked even scrawnier than before, albeit less shaggy. The sunglasses did the rest.

It was better not to think about what she’d look like without the hat, but frankly, those concerns weren't even tertiary right now. If all went well, it would be easy to restore her previous appearance. If all went wrong, it wouldn’t matter. That made any kind of vanity she might have a non-issue, really.

Hoping the paper-thin disguise was enough to throw their pursuers off their scent long enough, she marched outside to wait for Malfoy. She’d half expected him to be there waiting for her, instead, ready to make a sarcastic comment about women and bathrooms. But she had to admit that it was a little unfair to him to put words in his mouth he hadn't even said. Besides, his short-term transformation was a bit trickier than simply chopping up hair.

She wondered-

“Are you gonna stand there all day or can we go?”

Flinching heavily, she turned to her right and…and…had to pour all energy she had into not gawping. “I seriously didn’t recognise you.”

“That’s the whole point. We need to get moving.” A thoroughly miserable expression on his face, he adjusted his baseball cap. “Did I miss any stains on my neck? I feel like a coal miner. I didn’t even use to know what that was. That’s what this world has done to me. How _wretched_.”

This was almost too much for her to handle. Finally, the stress was starting to get to her. Biting her tongue, she curtly shook her head. “No, no stains. It’s fine. You look…you look sort of Celtic?”

He tugged at a strand of his hair – pitch-black, courtesy of a cheap can of colour hairspray – and made a face. “Ridiculous is more likely.”

“No. Just different.” She ventured a little smile. “It’ll wash out.”

“If I live to see tomorrow. If not, I’ll get tossed into a nameless grave wearing a cheap jumper and tacky hairspray.” He pointed at her beanie. “Nice hat.”

“It is.” She adjusted the strap of her rucksack. “We should get going.”

“The sooner this is over, the better.” He set into motion, and she hurried to catch up. “You know where the facility is?”

“I do. We need to take the Tube.”

“The what?”

After weaving through a small crowd of Swedish teenagers in grey uniforms who were chattering excitedly, she said, “Subway. Train.”

“Oh.”

“Whatever you do, don’t look directly into the cameras. They’re everywhere. They’d recognise us in a heartbeat.”

“That’s what the stupid getup is for.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **4** **They took the District Line to Notting Hill Gate and then switched to the Central Line.** It had been several years since Hermione had taken the Tube, but she did remember it as being less shabby and run-down. There were even more delays announced than there used to be, and smaller damages were obviously not being repaired.

The Tube being the Tube, of course she and Malfoy didn’t find a seat until they were almost at their destination. All this time, neither said anything. That wasn’t for the worst: the less they talked or moved, the less attention they drew to themselves. At least it was chilly, which gave them good excuses for wearing hats. After they passed Holland Park, they finally found some seats and settled down, facing each other.

“Travelling this way takes forever,” Malfoy said lowly, looking out the smudgy window at the blurry tunnel lights flashing by periodically.

“We won’t be doing it on our way back no matter how things go.” She only just refrained from readjusting her sunglasses yet again. Wearing them made seeing a tad bit harder, but taking them off wasn’t an option. The magic suppressor in her pocket wasn’t helping matters.

“That one station we passed, in the other train, that was where Daphne and the others are heading, right?”

“Right. They should be starting their part of the plan in less than half an hour.”

“That puts some pressure on us.”

“It does, yes.” In a surreptitious manner, she let her eyes wander and looked at the other passengers in turn. At this point, there weren't many tourists left. No, these were commuters. They looked tired and somewhat ragged – like people who wanted to be left alone. “Everything we’ve done so far has been the easiest part of the operation.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I know that, Granger. Thank you for stating the obvious.”

She faced him. It was still odd to see black hair sticking out from under his hat. “I was saying this more to myself than to you. So far, we’ve caught a massive break. From here on out, it will not be as easy to get where we want.”

“What exactly has been easy about anything these past five years?” He waved off. “Let’s not have a philosophical discussion right now, please.”

“That wasn’t my intention.” She folded her icy, clammy hands atop her lap and swallowed down some bile. Until now, she’d been able to ignore her heartburn. Sitting still in some dilapidated subway train carriage didn’t provide enough stimuli to distract her from her anxiety, though, unfortunately.

A minute or so passed in silence.

He pressed his knuckles to his lips and discreetly cleared his throat. “Suppose we manage to get what we want. Suppose it all works out in the most ideal way possible.”

Was there any more coming, or was she supposed to guess? It was always so hard to tell what people wanted; the fact that this was Malfoy didn’t exactly help. “Okay,” she said, wary, and shifted her weight on the worn, threadbare seat.

“Do you think we’ll find some alive? Some of our own?”

Her stomach panged worse than ever. She chewed on the inside of her lower lip. This was not a rhetorical question. “I…I tried not to think about that until now.”

“You don’t want to think about friends being experimented on, tortured. I get that. But I can’t help wondering.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it. It’s dumb and useless, but it’s the truth.”

“It’s neither dumb nor useless.” She pondered trying to say something consoling, but came up short. “Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

He glanced at her, but then looked out the window at nothing again. “Other than you, I don’t have the luxury of knowing that my messiah best friend is just waiting for me to come up with some dastardly rescue for him.” Well, that was an answer or a sort, wasn’t it? “To tell you the truth, I used to think you and Potter were the dream couple for the ages, not you and Weasley.”

All at once, she felt like crying, smiling stupidly, and socking him in the teeth. She settled for dryly replying, “What, _you_ were mistaken? The high and mighty Draco Malfoy? What a shocker.”

“There’s no need to get tetchy. I didn’t do anything.” He scratched his neck, fumbled with the cuffs of his jumper sleeves, and blew out a heavy breath. “For the record, I would think it an advantage if Potter and the Weasley girl were still alive.” After a few seconds of heavy, awkward silence, he added, “I don’t want any of your friends to be dead.”

She looked at the blurry tunnel lights, too. “Thank you. I hope you find whoever it is you’re searching for.”

Thankfully, that was when their stop was announced.

“If we manage to do this with ease, as well,” he said, standing up and adjusting the straps of his rucksack, “then we’ll know it’s a trap.”

“Maybe they just won’t see us coming.”

“Maybe.” He gave her a doubtful look. “Maybe this is all a bad dream, and it’s really still 1998.”

“Anything’s possible.”

They both exited the carriage and headed for the exit. If what they were planning right now worked, then they had a fighting chance of making it out of London alive.

 

* * *

 

 

 **5** **After the witch shot out the CCTV camera next to that department store,** it took the surveillance team a while – too long a while – to find Mary’s Jeep again. It seemed, at first, that the witch had only shot the camera in an attempt to hide whatever it was that the wizard was getting out of the Jeep’s trunk, but that made no sense. If they’d been hiding something they needed to get to the backseat, why not have it there all along? But the two sorcerers were still on the backseat, looking ahead blankly, while Mary drove and the other guy – Steve? Marty? Josh couldn’t quite recall – just sat there, riding shotgun, a dazed expression on his face.

What was going on? What were they planning? This was weird. Something was definitely up.

Nox had told Josh to stay at his post and to, at first, let the witches drive around without interference, yes. But that seemed so wrong to him. Something wasn’t right here. The other Jeep was still cruising around several tourist spots for an unknown reason, as if the three sorcerers inside were…were…

Oh God, they were waiting for something to happen, weren't they? Something the others were supposed to do. That was the whole reason for the song and dance at that damn CCTV camera, wasn’t it? They’d created a diversion so that no-one would…

…what, exactly? Watch them escape? They were still inside the Jeep, according to the cameras, and there was no hexing those. They were protected by the magic suppression field the North Acton Security Centre generated for all of London. The witches weren't anywhere near that place, and even if they’d get there, there was no way inside for them.

Unless there was.

Acid sloshed in Josh’s stomach. His skin broke out in gooseflesh, despite the fact that he was sweating. He grabbed his phone and called Sarah. “Stop the Jeep.”

“ _Which one? Also, we’re not supposed to_ -”

“Mary’s Jeep. Stop it. Shine a light inside. Talk to the witches.”

She sounded the tiniest bit exasperated when she said, “ _Lucesco, we are not to engage the enemy. You know that better than-_ ”

“I don’t _care!_ Just stop the fucking Jeep already!” He disconnected the call without waiting for a reply. This was rude as all get-out, yes, but he’d feel bad about it and apologise later. Right now, more important things were at stake. Trying to keep calm, he called the security desk at N.A.S.C.

A young woman’s voice said, “ _Hello?_ ”

“You recognise my number? I.D. security code one nine eight three.”

“ _Hold, please_.” The sound of a keyboard being mistreated made its way through the line. “ _What can I do for you, sir?_ ”

“You can raise the alarm and put the facility on lockdown. I’m pretty sure a couple of witches are on their way to shut you down.”

There was a little pause. “ _I’m sorry, Mister Lucesco, but we can’t just put the facility on lockdown without at least three of the senior officers_ -”

“ _God damn_ all this fucking bureaucracy! If you don’t do as I say, you’ll be shut down!”

“ _Sir, there is no need to shout at me. I’m not your punching bag_ ,” she replied coolly. “ _If there is reasonable doubt for a security breach, you must clear it with the man himself, first. Until then, I can order no lockdown_.”

He slapped his free hand to his forehead and heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry I screamed at you, but this is an emergency.” The problem was, there was no proof, and putting the facility on lockdown would attract attention they couldn’t afford. Still, it needed to be done.

After an agonisingly long silence, she said, sounding a tad mollified, “ _I’ll request more soldiers from Central, but it’s gonna take a while_.”

“How long?”

“ _At least an hour_.”

“That might be too late. But thanks anyway.” He disconnected and tossed the stupid phone on the desk. That was when it blared its annoying ringtone again.

It was Sarah. “ _Do you have psychic powers? They’re gone_.”

His innards were in knots by this point. “Gone.” It wasn’t even a question.

“ _What we were seeing on the backseat? Illusions of some sort. Went up in smoke when we shone a light on them. Looked really creepy. They must’ve escaped after they shot up that back alley camera_.”

For a moment, he just sat there, paralysed, trying to compute what was happening. Right under their noses! This was bad. This was so, so bad. “Mary?” A complete sentence was out of the question right now.

“ _Can’t remember anything. Neither can Steve_. _They’re okay, though._ ”

With superhuman strength, it seemed, he made himself snap out of his shock. “Get them both here. Stop the other Jeep, too, and make sure that the witches in there aren’t an illusion, either. If they’re still there, take them into custody.”

“ _Did you talk this over with the boss? Coz our orders-_ ”

“I’m giving you new ones. Oh, and Sarah? Dispatch extra security to the N.A.S.C.” He wiped some cold sweat from his forehead. “I’ll talk to the boss.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **6** **The place Hermione and Malfoy went to was a tall building that loomed rather ominously over the busy streets.** It was a reddish, but somewhat greying thing that on the inside smelled like an old shoe. The people they met on the staircases and the hallways didn’t look exactly carefree, to put it mildly.

Malfoy, of course, had a special way of getting to the point quickly, without preamble. “This city is so ugly.”

Breathing was becoming harder the higher they climbed, and she’d started to sweat buckets. However, neither she nor Malfoy wanted their plan to fail due to something as mundane and ridiculous as getting stuck in a lift.

She said, “Not all of it, and it’s not these people’s fault.”

“I never said it was. I just stated a fact.”

“Well, at least we weren't subjected to any security patrols on the train.”

“I’m inclined to think that this was no coincidence.”

“I don’t know.” The magic suppressor in her pocket making her want to scratch her own skin off was bad enough. It was also getting unbearably hot under the beanie. She pulled it off her head. Nobody would care about how jagged her haircut was. “Mary said that there are less patrols nowadays simply because there are hardly any wizarding people left.”

He glanced at her. “They know we’re here, Granger. They haven't caught us because they don’t want to.”

“Or they simply haven't caught on to the fact that we took the Tube.”

Thankfully, they reached the right story at last. It was about time, too.

Hermione had to admit that she was woefully out of shape.

He wasn’t faring any better, either, judging by how he was panting.

She said, “What was it again?”

“Nine A.” He took off his hat and ran his bony fingers through his black hair.

Feeling rather shallow, she had to admit to herself that getting used to this radically new look of his wasn’t exactly easy.

He pointed at a pitifully decrepit wooden door whose dark-green paint was fading and peeling off. “Over here. Would you like to do the honours?”

“No. You go ahead.” From out of the rucksack, she got Mary’s gun.

Malfoy rapped his knuckles against the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again.

They heard shuffling steps approaching from inside. The door was opened only a little. A young man’s face appeared. He was white, scruffy, dishevelled, and had bloodshot eyes. “Who’re you?”

“Percy Shelley? Who works at the N.A.S.C.?” Malfoy said, completely deadpan, yet weirdly commanding – like he had a right to demand personal information from anyone he came across.

It was something he was truly good at, this aristocratic attitude. Hermione had to give him that.

The young man frowned. “Yeah. Who’re you?”

“No-one,” Hermione said, and pointed the gun in Mary’s brother’s face. “Don’t make a sound and you get to live.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and company start the final phase of their plan to get into the Ministry of Magic. The enemy prepares to intercept them. In Wales, Pansy and the others wait for the inevitable battle that'll decide everyone's fate.

 

**1** **Of course, of _course_ the second Jeep had also been charmed or hexed or whatever** one might want to call it. This had been done to only make it _look_ as if there’d still been witches in it. Of _course_ they’d somehow managed to make themselves scarce in the interim. Of _course_ they were gone. Josh’s instinct had been right all along. These monsters were way too cunning to fall for such an obvious trap. No, they’d brazenly traipsed into the lion’s den knowing exactly what they were doing. Now, they were in the wind, somewhere in London, up to God knew what. Time was running out. Something horrible was about to happen. Even though Josh had ordered more security to be sent to the N.A.S.C., he still knew, just _knew_ that a catastrophe was just on the horizon.

Damn it.

When Sarah brought Mary over to the stupid office in the Palace of Westminster, he felt the almost overwhelming need to punch someone in the face until they stopped moving.

Mary looked physically unharmed, but she was pale and a little green around the gills. Her eyes were wide. She looked…God, she looked _scared_.

Josh’s fury didn’t exactly evaporate, but it got mingled with a single, crushing desire: to take her into his arms and make her feel safe again. Without hesitation, he marched over to her and hugged her closely to his chest.

She put her strong arms around his waist and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. Calm and collected, yet quiet, she said, “I’m so sorry.”

After placing a kiss on her temple, he took her by the shoulders and created some distance between them. He needed her to look him in the eye and see that she was safe, that she’d done nothing wrong. “It’s not your fault; it’s mine. I sent you to them. I underestimated them. You did everything you were supposed to and then some.”

Behind Mary stood Sarah, stony-faced. She said, “Can I go? I’m supposed to-”

“No. You need to be here as witness to what she has to say.” He knew that cutting in was rude (especially his mom wouldn’t have approved), but it just bugged him that she could be this objective and calm during such a crisis. It was a good thing, of course; that made it all worse, somehow: the fact that Sarah managed to stay professional when he couldn’t.

Sarah, ever unflappable, shrugged. “All right. But you justify it to the boss.”

He just grunted an affirmative before focussing on Mary again – poor Mary, who’d been through something highly traumatic, utterly terrifying, and who had no business blaming herself. “Mary, listen to me” – He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze – “you did everything you were supposed to. This isn't your fault.”

Her expression grew pained. “The worst part is that I don’t remember _anything_. I’ve lost almost an entire day, Josh.” She looked up at the ceiling, pressed her lips together, and shook her head. “God, I feel so…so helpless, so _stupid_.”

“Don’t.” He let go of her shoulders only to cup her face. Her skin was so warm. It made him think of sweeter days and bluer skies and less horror in the world – at least a time when he hadn't known about all the horrors that lurked in the shadows. Right now wasn’t about him, though; it was about Mary. He told her, “You were very brave. I know how awful and life-changing an encounter with those monsters can be; I _know_.”

“What happened to you was a million times worse. I’m fine.”

“You will be.” He placed a soft kiss on her lips. “I promise.” That was when his cell starting ringing. A chill slithered down his spine. “Aw, crap.”

“Good luck,” Sarah said. At least it wasn’t an ‘I told you so’.

Of course, it was the boss.

Josh picked up bracing for a scolding or at least dire disappointment. “Let me explain.”

For a few seconds, there was only soft breathing coming from the other end of the line. This was the most dreaded scenario, really, this tranquillity. It could mean so many things. Finally, though, Nox said, “ _There is a reason why we have a chain of command. You do realise that, don’t you?_ ”

Josh pressed his eyes together and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, man, but you gave me responsibility, which means I get to make judgment calls when-”

“ _That most certainly does not mean that I get to hear it from someone other than you.”_ He paused for a few seconds. “ _Apologies. I didn’t mean to snap._ _This is my fault, not yours. You were worried about Mary_.”

“No, it’s totally on me. I-”

“ _Joshua, I’m sorry for interrupting, but you need to listen to me like you’ve never listened to me before. Can you do that?_ ”

“Of course.” Josh looked directly into Mary’s eyes. He really didn’t like talking to people without looking at them. This was the next best thing.

Actually, it was better.

As if she could sense this, she smiled a little – a small, sweet, nearly timid expression that just made the world seem a less grey and hostile place.

Nox, of course, could see none of it. “ _Good. That’s good. Listen: there is something I haven’t told you – something that isn't easy to understand. It could put you at risk, and that’s the last thing I want. But now, I fear that things might unravel if I don’t_.”

Josh felt a little bit as if he’d found out his dad was a secret government agent or something. Usually, the truth was not that dramatic. Ever since early 1998, though, he knew that life was a whole lot weirder than he’d ever feared. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“ _I do. As the clichéd saying goes: I feel I’ve been remiss in my duties. You’re my second in command. You need to know. I have to warn you, though: it’s dangerous knowledge_.”

Hardly even realising that he was doing it, Josh reached out to close his fingers around Mary’s wrist. “I can handle it.”

“ _Okay, then. Have Sarah take Mary home. Tell Sarah to go back to work. Come to Windsor as soon as you can_.” He hung up.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **It didn’t take long for the government to send what troops they had to Brecon Beacons.** In the early days, when there’d still been large gatherings of wizarding folk resisting persecution, Pansy had sometimes wondered why the newly-installed dictatorship didn’t simply bomb them out of existence after strategically placing magic suppressors. They’d send in their shock troops and goons, all right, but they wouldn’t drop bombs on them the way some of the complacent press clamoured for. Back then, Pansy’s theory had been that the tyrants wanted to maintain the semblance of legitimacy in front of the world community.

Over the years, though, she was forced to come to a different conclusion: everyone’s favourite little autocrat didn’t give a damn about legitimacy. What he cared about were results, and he clearly went about getting those in the most efficient way possible. It was clear now that Nox wasn’t simply after eradicating magic. He was collecting wizards and witches. Somehow, that was even worse. Dying was one thing, differing opinions on what might or might not follow notwithstanding. Getting whisked away to be thrown in a dungeon or experimented on or whatever was just a horror almost impossible to conceive.

As she stood at the periphery of their soon-to-be erstwhile camp, hidden behind the treeline, waiting, she couldn’t help but think back on her Hogwarts days. She’d been such a self-important moron. Of course, she hadn't been as conceited and snobby as good old Granger, but still: neither Pansy, nor her friends had been particularly pleasant – or smart, for that matter. During the whole Voldemort debacle, everyone had been in over their heads, especially the Slytherins, what with most of them having parents or at least close relatives among the Death Eaters. And Draco? He’d been forced to help Voldemort and had, at great personal risk, chosen not to become a murderer. Now, he was out there doing the right thing again – with Granger’s help, yes, yes, yes, but still. He’d come a long way since his teenage years; they all had.

She dearly hoped that he was still alive. They’d always been good friends, ever since they’d been little kids. She didn’t think she could take it if she lost him, too – him and Daphne.

Ah, Daphne.

It took the end of their world to make them understand what really mattered, didn’t it?

Shaking her head in both irritation and exasperation, she made herself snap out of it. There was a time and a place to contemplate one’s life choices, and this was neither. Then again, odds were that she was going to die in the next hour, anyway, so if not now, when?

That was when she heard the tell-tale whirr of helicopter rotors cutting through air. They were coming.

All Pansy and her friends (seriously, Patil and the other goodie-two-shoes were Pansy’s friends now in her own head? How annoying) could hope for was that they managed to last long enough for Draco and company to wreak some epic havoc.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **As Nox waited for Joshua, the wayward American cowboy,** he received a call that was both disconcerting and reassuring. In Wales, a camp of at least a dozen witches and wizards had been spotted shooting sparks high into the air and making an incredible ruckus. On one hand, this was good news, because it would not be too hard to capture them now that they’d willingly given themselves up. On the other hand, this was clearly part of Miss Hermione Granger and Mister Draco Malfoy’s strategy. What was this supposed to be? A distraction? Well, yes – obviously. But was this all? They were desperate, of course, and most likely out of resources. In all probability, they were just counting on splitting the Malleus forces. Not that that made much sense, but desperate people made stupid mistakes.

Then again, maybe they were onto the fact that the magic suppressors themselves were powered by magic. It wouldn’t do them any good if they couldn’t find a way to shut them down. Once Granger and Narcissa’s son had managed to slip through the cracks, it became obvious to Nox that they intended to put the North Acton facility out of business. It was a good plan, too; one had to give them that. He wondered how they planned to even get in there, especially now that Joshua had so elegantly thrown a spanner in the works, but they’d manage – with a little help from above, of course. They needed to switch off the suppressor. They needed to be able to get to the Ministry of Magic without getting caught or killed by overzealous soldiers. They needed to locate the Research Committee’s findings. They needed to break the amber and free Ginny Weasley – Potter, too, if they could, which would be a nice bonus.

More than that, Nox needed them to do this.

Joshua, bless his one-track-mind to hell and back, had a way of blundering into things without even meaning to. He was a good man, loyal and brave. He was also too sentimental, to irascible, too traumatised by his losses.

Nox didn’t blame him for what he’d done. After all, everyone was just a product of their environment, and this behaviour wasn’t Joshua’s fault – not really. Even if, Nox had to admit to himself that he didn’t want anything to happen to the boy. This was a dedicated officer and a fierce friend. He didn’t deserve to become a casualty of a war he’d been dragged into against his will. Besides, Nox was always mindful of what a sad excuse for a boss Voldemort had been. That idiot had terrorised his own allies, treated them like vermin, tortured and killed them for the smallest mistakes. To put it mildly, that had been something of a bad move. It had, in the end, backfired spectacularly – small wonder. One reaped what one sowed.

Now, though, was time to focus on the grand prize that was just over the horizon: his ticket inside Hogwarts. For that purpose, his own allies could no longer be allowed to mess with his plans. That was why Joshua needed to know the truth – part of the truth, anyway. Nox didn’t think that the poor boy was in any shape to handle all of it. It was, after all, a need-to-know situation. But nothing else would go wrong. A few desperate magical folk in Wales weren't going to make much of a difference. They’d be dealt with, one way or another.

For a ludicrous moment, he almost gave into the temptation of voicing some cheesy one-liner about how nothing could stop him now, even though he was all by himself. Instead, he chuckled lowly, feeling silly, and marched out of the room. Soon, Joshua would arrive. It was time to get Narcissa Malfoy.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **Percy Shelley was not at all prepared to deal with armed lunatics barging into his humble abode, it seemed.** He didn’t resist when Hermione told him not to. Without a word, he allowed her and Malfoy to get into his flat and lock the door behind themselves. They led him to the small living room and sat him down on the surprisingly new-looking sofa.

Hermione didn’t keep the gun trained on him, but she kept it in hand. “You’re getting us into the N.A.S.C.”

Shelley blinked at her in what had to be both surprise and confusion. He didn’t seem overly afraid, though. “You’re witches. You want to destroy the place.”

“No, idiot. We want to switch it off,” Malfoy said irritably. “We know that you work maintenance. You’re gonna get us inside right now. If you start to stall or try to bolt, my friend will put a bullet in your skull. Understand?”

Friend? Hermione wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that. It rang true, though – at least for the moment. Right now, they were united against the world. What a strange notion. The strangest aspect of it was the realisation that if Shelley were to try something, she really would shoot him. She really would kill someone in order to keep Malfoy, of all people, alive.

How things changed. Had she? Probably.

Shelley nodded. He swallowed dryly. His hands were shaking slightly. Otherwise, he was perfectly composed. “I can get you inside, but you won’t get far.”

Malfoy exchanged a long-suffering look with Hermione, and said, “If I wanted your opinion, you’d notice. Now, get whatever you need and take us to the damn place.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” Hermione felt compelled to add. “Nobody will get hurt.”

“Right,” Shelley said, glowering at her. “That’s why you’re forcing me to switch off the machine that keeps monsters like you from murdering innocent people. You’re nothing but murderers. Why should I believe a single word from a _thing_ like you?”

Fearing disaster, Hermione hurried to say, “Just ignore him, Malfoy.” She glanced at him.

His usually pale face was faintly flushed. His eyes were huge. There was a look of pure, deep hatred on his face that was enough to send an icy shiver down Hermione’s spine. “You don’t know _anything_ about me,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands were balled into fists. “You worthless, racist _piece of shit_. What gives you _the right?_ ” He took a few steps forward, toward the helpless Shelley.

Hermione wondered whether the irony of those words was lost on Malfoy, or whether his ability for honest self-reflection had already taken him that far.

Shelley just stared at him, wide-eyed. Beads of sweat were blooming on his face.

This was going to end badly.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, tightening her grip on the gun. Her throat constricted. Her mouth felt dry and cottony. Her hands weren't shaking, but they were as cold as ice. “Malfoy.” There was no reaction. She swallowed dryly. “Draco.”

That snapped him out of it. He stopped, exhaled sharply, shook his head. “I’m fine.”

In a quiet tone, mostly because she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t start sounding a little panicky if she didn’t keep it down, she said, “Don’t let this nonsense get to you. It’s not worth it. We need him alive and in one piece.”

“I said I’m fine!” he snapped, but then, surprisingly, deflated a bit. He nodded at her; the motion was nearly imperceptible, but it was definitely there. “Thanks.”

“You’ve every right to be angry,” she said. This was a little awkward, wasn’t it? Well, the whole situation was uncomfortable as hell. Who would have thought that she’d be here, taking a random person hostage and holding them at gunpoint? This was just as bad as using the _Imperius_ curse. The sad thing was, right now, she’d use it on Shelley in a heartbeat.

“But we’re running out of time; I know.” Malfoy waved off. He focussed his attention on Shelley again. His expression grew colder than ever. “You: shut up. Do as you’re told or die horribly. Those are your only two options. If you want to live, nod.”

Shelley did.

Malfoy offered him a rather nasty little sneer. “Great.” He turned to Hermione. “We need to get going. Pansy will already have started raising hell in Wales.”

In the spirit of beneficial cooperation, she decided to let his bossiness slide – this once. It would not do to argue in front of someone who considered himself their enemy, anyway. “Yes,” she said, instead. It sounded a little clipped.

To his credit, Malfoy seemed to catch onto her irritation. “Do the honours, then.”

“Thank you.” She looked at their prisoner and explained what they wanted – no, what they needed him to do.

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **It was hard to tell how many of them were approaching,** but it seemed as if the entirety of the Welsh Malleus branch had been mobilised to take out the camp at Brecon Beacons. They were coming in black helicopters and black Jeeps, wearing their stupid uniforms and probably feeling ultra-cool while they were at it.

All Pansy wanted was for this to be finally over.

Everyone was in place. The traps were set, people were prepared as best as they could hope for.

This was all going to end in tears, wasn’t it? How dreary.

When gold old Finnegan had still been alive, he’d been sort of infamous for blowing stuff up all over the place without even meaning to. He was long gone now, shot to pieces three years ago, but his penchant for explosive action had been preserved by his friends and allies. With magic, it was easy to create explosions – without, they needed to take the Muggle route. Luckily, Granger was a know-it-all who had no hobbies except reading everything that had ever been published. She knew (had known? Here was to hoping she was still breathing) how to fashion what she called Molltof cocktails – something like that. Mollahof? Monaghan? Whatever. What mattered was that those concoctions blew things up and lit them on fire nice and proper. There was no need for magic there.

Now wasn’t that the most depressing thought of all?

Maybe everything would change for the better today. After all the crap they’d been through, after all the death and despair, it was their time to come out on top…even if they did end up burning down the forest that had kept them alive for so long.

The Jeeps reached the edge of the camp. The helicopters hovered above.

Pansy took a deep breath. Thinking of old McGonagall and how she’d had the Slytherins taken to the dungeons during the last confrontation between Bespectacled Boy Wonder and Voldemort, Pansy had to laugh to herself. At least this epic battle she was not going to miss out on.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Wales, Pansy fights to survive the Malleus attack. In London, everyone knows they're walking into a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wrote this in my profile, but if you didn't see that, here it is again: I've been having some personal stuff to deal with, which is why updates have become this irregular. However, the story will be written through to the end (all of them will). I've already got it all planned out, so never fear!!!! / drama 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to those of you who've come this far. I hope you keep enjoying my little tale of woe.

**1** **Daphne, Luna, and Rolf’s job was a thankless one, but these days,** that wasn’t exactly a surprise. What they needed to do was stay off the radar, be discreet, and create some well-timed chaos in Central London. That was all smoke and mirrors, of course – distractions from what they were really after: information about Nox. The tricky bit was getting to that even though the other side was fully expecting them to. Back in Bexhill-on-Sea, Hermione had explained to them the concept of magic tricks. Before it became public knowledge that actual magic existed (after the Renaissance, that was), Muggles loved to engage in pretences of magic: they’d trick their audiences, even though those audiences knew that no actual magic was being performed. The appeal of these shows was the ability of the ‘magician’ to pull off a trick without letting the audience know how.

That was what they were doing right now, at least until Draco and Hermione managed to shut off the giant magic suppressor. This was the trickiest bit, actually: knowing when to turn off the manual suppressors they were carrying in their pockets. There was a deadline: at a certain hour, Daphne and the others would simply turn the stupid things off and see if they could Apparate. It was a long shot, but the only one they had. If they were to switch off the handheld devices before Draco and Hermione succeeded, they’d almost certainly get caught. It wasn’t for nothing that every single witch or wizard who’d tried to enter London had been found out. Somehow, the enemy had a way of finding magic users wherever their suppressors worked. That was why whoever was left had to hide in tiny pockets of magic, where there wasn’t any suppression coverage.

Daphne had pinned up her hair under a hat. Half her face was hidden behind hideous plastic sunglasses. Rolf and Luna were thinly disguised, too, and keeping their heads down so that the ever-present cameras wouldn’t catch them too easily.

Trying hard to be as inconspicuous as possible, they mingled with a group of tourists and headed toward St. James’s Park as soon as they sent their Imperiused drivers away, illusions of themselves on the backseat. They didn’t have much time, but they had some. All that mattered was that they made the best of it.

“It seems strange to me to set trees on fire,” Luna said lowly, from Daphne’s left. “The air isn't clean as it is. With more smoke and less trees, it’ll get even worse. I don’t think we should make things worse for people.”

“I understand your trepidations; I do,” Daphne murmured back. She furtively glanced about. Nobody was paying any attention to them, nor were they close enough to be able to discern any words. “But we need to stick to the plan.”

“I don’t feel good about this, either,” Rolf said, from Luna’s left. He was holding her hand pretty tightly. “But we’re doing this to save not just ourselves, but whatever’s left of the wizarding world.”

“This makes me think about when we went to the Ministry to save Harry’s godfather,” Luna said, and sighed. “We were trying to help, too. That didn’t go so well.”

“The difference is, we don’t have a choice this time,” Daphne said.

“But we do,” Luna countered quietly. “We could sit back and die. It’s not a good choice, but it is a choice.”

“Well, let’s not discuss semantics,” Rolf said, leaned in, and placed a brief kiss on his wife’s hollow cheek. “We promised to do our part. It’s too late to back down.”

“I never said I wanted to back down. I just said it was strange to set fire to trees.”

Daphne had to smile a little, despite herself. “What isn't strange, these days?”

She dearly hoped that Draco and Hermione would manage their part. Not for the first time, she had to think about the camp in Wales where Hermione and nineteen others had hidden for months on end – or was it years? Didn’t matter. But there they’d been, huddled away in some forsaken forest, waiting to die. It had been the worst thing, losing Astoria, but finding out that twenty other witches and wizards were alive and kicking was at least a little bit consoling. Most of the survivors were Gryffindors. Not that it mattered much, because no-one’s life was worth more, but it would’ve been good to find out that her classmates had made it, as well. At least Pansy was still there. That one was hard to kill – always had been.

The thought that she was leading an ambush on Malleus soldiers was not only encouraging; it was elating. If Pansy had made it thus far, she’d survive everything.

At least that was a thought that gave Daphne a little hope, that put the tiniest amount of spring in her step.

They’d make it. Believing anything else was a waste of time.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Chaos. Absolute chaos.** Pansy had been right: the soldiers weren't there to kill the witches and wizards; they were there to collect them. No bombs dropped. Hardly any shots were fired. Should’ve been obvious. Too many of those dumb racist wankers around for too few wizarding folk. Good news, bad news, really. Bad news was, whoever got caught got the short end of the stick.

Good news was, soldiers ordered to capture were soldiers on the ground – soldiers that could be killed.

The Mollanoff cocktails did their job where magic couldn’t. Someone tossed one of the damn things directly into a landing helicopter. The screams were satisfying; the stench of burning flesh, hair, and plastic less so. They deserved it, though: five dead, five million to go. Ha!

The noise was _terrible!_ Soon enough, Pansy couldn’t hear anything but muffled thuds, muffled explosions, muffled yells – the world as listened to through a box of thick cotton. What a notion.

There was a boom. Air whooshed from her lungs. Heat. Like being hit by an invisible tidal wave. She couldn’t even yell in surprise as she flew backwards, crashed into some thorny bushes, thumped heavily on the ground. Everything hurt: head back arms legs skin eyes throat oh dear breathing hard so hard smoke eyes watering stomach roiling _what the hell?_ She tried to push herself up, but blinding, white-hot agony tore through her innards, and she collapsed, gurgling up bile – something else, too. Blood oh dear blood spitting blood not good very bad terrible was this death might be oh God. Damn eyes were watering too badly. She couldn’t see shit like this!

That was when two arms grabbed her.

Oh, no! No, no, no! No way was she going to be taken by those freaks! No way were they going to experiment on her lock her in a dungeon take away break tear end-

A familiar, female voice screamed her name into her ear as strong hands mercilessly hauled her up.

Dark patches swam before Pansy’s eyes as more crippling pain seared through her poor guts, but she could hardly gasp, let alone scream.

Then, there was a different kind of pain, as if her head had been cracked open. Her face burned. A slap! The intruder had slapped her! She couldn’t even fight, but limply hung in that person’s (woman’s?) arms like a ragdoll. How pathetic.

“ _Get it together!_ ” There it was again, that voice. Familiar. Known. Friendly. “ _Help me, damn you! We need to move!_ Help _me, Parkinson!_ ”

Pansy swallowed down more bile (blood? Vomit? Both), gnashed her teeth together, grabbed onto that woman for dear life, and dragged her feet, trying hard to ignore the feeling that her organs had become untethered inside her. She trembled, stumbled, saw black. Her breath was hitching. Her throat burned. Smoke. Smoke in her eyes, nostrils, mouth, throat lungs oh God-

Darkness.

Noise still muffled, but sounding clearer, yet farther away. Funny. One of her shoes was gone. That explained the cold the soreness the-

Darkness.

Clean earth, rocks, some weeds under her feet. She was leaning heavily on the taller woman, who dragged her forward with grim determination. That was one strong woman, too, with a grip like iron. Pansy coughed. Liquid dribbled down her chin, salty and warm and metallic. Blood! Oh shit oh no the explosion something had come undone something-

Darkness.

Noise farther away. The sound of…the sound of water splashing? Hm. Curious. She felt cold now. It was a little funny, such a cliché, so trite, the dying girl going ‘I’m so cold’ before she snuffed it. She-

“Almost torn in half, and she still laughs.” The voice sounded amused and maybe even a little bit proud.

Finally, Pansy recognised its owner: it was Callidora Selwyn, the Ravenclaw Death Eater.

“What…the others, I…”  Pansy coughed, retched, spat, convulsed, nearly fell. More blood. More black spots dancing before her eyes. She’d really got the worst of that shockwave, hadn't she?

“Couldn’t save them; I’m sorry.” Mercifully, Callidora stopped walking.

Pansy leaned against her, panting. She was drenched in sweat and blood and vomit. The stink of it burned in her nostrils. Not that it mattered. She felt heavy as lead, and it wasn’t just due to her injuries.

Couldn’t save them.

Couldn’t save them.

All gone.

Were they the last now? She and Callidora and Draco and Granger and…

…and Daphne?

She closed her eyes but fought against the dizziness, the slip into oblivion. This was pain that needed to be felt. These were losses that needed to be mourned, and she’d been a coward before. Not again. Never again.

“They’re coming, dear,” Callidora said gently, as she hugged Pansy to herself. “I’m sorry, but I have no other choice. There’s only one place we can go now, and only this tiny pocket of magic left from which we can travel hence.”

One place they could go?

Oh, no.

Dread spread through Pansy’s maltreated innards like icy hooks. She raised her pounding head and looked up. Her vision was still blurry, but she could see the nearly empty, dark boughs of the tall trees standing in stark contrast to the grey sky.

That was when the world distorted. They Apparated.

There was no escape now, nowhere left to run.

The darkness returned. Pansy allowed it to swallow her whole.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Nox had Narcissa brought, once again, to the Crimson Drawing Room.** It was, in his opinion, one of the few places in this stronghold worthy of her magnificence. Naturally, he’d never tell her that. After all, she despised him (for good reason, one had to admit), and he didn’t want to come across as any creepier than he already did.

Then again, his entire life had been a bit of a no-win scenario. They’d found him unsettling when he tried to accommodate them; they found him unsettling now that he was their enemy. There was no winning with these people, really. How did that saying go? Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That was the one.

Much to his parents’ dismay, he’d always been a casual, practical dresser: jeans, t-shits, jumpers, trainers. That was the best kind of attire for a boy who spent most of his time outdoors, away from all the familial stuffiness. Also, as he’d grown older, he’d had to admit to himself that his attitude hadn't just been an attempt to get the hell away from all the hullaballoo, but also a rather obnoxious way to annoy the family.

Everyone had their pitfalls, didn’t they? Everyone and their House Elf.

So yes, much to his parents’ dismay, he’d mostly chosen to stand out like a sore thumb at every opportunity. To his own dismay, he found himself unable to resist the temptation to put on at least a white shirt and a jacket today of all days. Was it because finally, he’d be able to get around the so far impenetrable barrier that the old hag McGonagall had put around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, which would be cause for celebration and matching attire? Was it, perchance, something he’d done in the futile hopes that the esteemed Mrs Malfoy, née Black might be a little less disdainful if the proper dress code were to be observed?

It was the latter one, wasn’t it?

Damn it.

Here he was, a grown man with four decades of life behind him, and he still sought the approval of the likes of her – of the likes of _them_.

Like Joshua, he was and would forever be a creature moulded by his environment. There were ties that bound, and then there were chains that suffocated until one got so used to them, one hardly noticed the pain anymore…

…and now, he was whining inside his own mind like a fucking teenager. For heaven’s sake! This was ridiculous.

When the guards brought Narcissa, he ran his strong fingers through his unruly hair and blew out a heavy breath. His stomach was in knots. He was cold, yet his palms were sweaty. Nerves, nerves: today was the big day. He had everything under control. All he had to do was follow his own plan.

She stepped into the room with her head held high, her jaw set, her eyes narrowed. Once the guards closed the doors behind her, she more spat than said, “ _What?_ ” It was amazing how much disdain and contempt she managed to lace that one syllable with, even though she spoke with quiet restraint.

This had to be due to decades of being a Black married to a Malfoy, he presumed. In part because this was something drilled into him and in part because he wanted to annoy her, he smiled. That always came easily and neither felt, nor looked false. “It’s almost time. I thought you might want to go through the script with me.”

The look she gave him was as close to an expletive as she’d ever get, and it was much more than enough. “If I do this and you backstab me, if anything happens to Draco or Lucius, I will end you.” This, she said even more calmly, in the tone one might use to announce that rain was wet and that lava was hot. To her, it was a fact – no more, no less.

Part of him wanted to tell her that she could just quit thinking herself better than him, but this kind of outburst always made him look like a tantrum-throwing infant and never helped. Therefore, he kept smiling at her. “I never expected anything else.” He motioned at one of the chairs. “Now, shall we get started?”

Without gracing him with a reply, she marched past him and took a seat.

“Lovely.” He’d be damned if he should let her ruin his almost giddy anticipation of things to come.

Besides, she’d one day understand. One day, they would all understand.

He’d brought the wizarding world to its knees. It was time to make the survivors understand that true hell was still about to be unleashed on them.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **There was no way to guarantee that Percy Shelley** wouldn’t try to be a hero and raise hell the moment the trio left his sorry little home. Then again, there was no guarantee for anything, and they were running out of time all too quickly. The confrontation in Wales should be underway by now. Daphne, Luna, and Rolf should already be in position. It was time Hermione and Malfoy got going. Like it or not, they had no other choice but to brazenly march into the lion’s den, hoping sheer shamelessness would be enough to get them inside the N.A.S.C..

“Try anything funny, and you’ll get your brains shot out for your trouble,” Malfoy told Shelley, as they were reading themselves to leave the latter’s crummy flat.

“Shoot me, and you’ll get dogpiled by Malleus soldiers inside of a minute,” Shelley shot back, but the tremor in his voice and the paleness of his sweaty skin betrayed his fear.

Hermione wasn’t sure fear was better than the lack thereof. Scared people did desperate things in order to ensure survival – case in point, really. Their own plan was the perfect mix of bold, desperate, and ridiculous.  “We won’t hurt you, Percy,” she said. The words came out of her mouth in a rather automatic fashion; she sounded distracted. The cogs inside her mind were turning. She frowned at Malfoy. “And I do mean it. We won’t have to hurt him because-”

“Oh, spare me the lecture, Granger, I-”

“ _Draco_.” The sharpness of her tone, as well as the use of his first name (twice in ten minutes! This was a new record) caught his attention. “It would be lovely if you’d let me finish my sentences, please. What I meant to say was: we won’t have to hurt him because you were right.”

He arched an eyebrow and gave her a wary look. “I was? When?”

“On the Tube. You speculated that we’re being allowed to roam the city freely because we’re walking into a trap. You’re right about that. We _are_ walking into a trap. They _want_ us to succeed.”

Shelley snorted. “Then you’re f-”

“Shut up,” Malfoy cut in dryly, before whacking Shelley upside the head. He locked eyes with Hermione again, who didn’t have it in herself to tell him off. “This is taking speculation a tad too far, I think. Has our luck so far been too convenient? Yes. Does it make sense to assume that those Muggle wankers know we’re coming and are baiting us? Yes. But why on Earth would you believe that they mean to let us switch off the magic suppressor?”

“Because if they only wanted to catch us, they could’ve done so already.”

For a moment, he just kept staring at her with a mix of irritation and exasperation. Then, he sighed with theatrical gusto, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head. “Granger the genius strikes again with her impeccable logic.” The words didn’t sound particularly caustic; rather, he sounded beyond tired. He shrugged and scratched his left wrist. “And to hell with these damn suppressors in our pockets, too. I feel like I’m allergic to myself.”

Hogwarts Hermione would have made a snarky comment. Grown-up Hermione still had the urge, but knew better. Instead, she said, “We don’t have a choice but to go on, though – trap or no trap.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, unhappy, and gave Shelley such a hateful scowl, the latter cringed despite attempting to put up a brave front. “That little weasel Nox wants us to free Potter, doesn’t he? Because in the end, it always comes back to Potter – and once we free the sorry wretch, Nox will dispose of us all.”

“Probably, yes.” She stepped forward and briefly touched his pointy elbow, ignoring the ill-conceived jab at Harry. Starting a fight over Malfoy’s resentment of Harry would be beyond useless. “We’ll just have to be quicker.”

This time, he raised both his eyebrows. They were still white-blond and contrasted harshly with his pitch-black hair. It kind of made him look like a grunge-band bassist.

Were there still grunge-bands? Hermione felt like she was hopelessly out of touch with Muggle pop culture.

Unaware of her pointless musings, he said, “Do you have some secret hideout I should be aware of?”

She made herself smile a little. It felt forced and probably looked worse. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

He waved off. “In case we get captured. I know; I know. Now…shall we?”

“Like we planned,” Hermione told Shelley, “through the maintenance back door and straight to the apparatus itself.”

“Though I doubt the farce is even necessary anymore,” Malfoy said.

“Maybe we can still surprise them.” Her guts tightened. Her face felt warm. What was this? Anger? It must be; she recognised it. Good. Better to be angry than to despair. “Trap or no trap, I’ll be damned if I should give that little parasite what he wants without ripping some chunks off him in the process.” Her voice trembled the slightest bit. It was as if there was too much emotion trying to break through – again, a good thing.

Obviously, Malfoy picked up on this. He offered her a grim little sneer. “Took the words right out of my mouth, Granger.”

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **The moment the little distraction in St. James’s Park was underway,** Daphne quietly slipped away and headed to the place where she was required to do her part. There were only so many ways that this could go: either she got caught or she didn’t. Her, Luna, and Rolf’s trek through Central London had been easy and free of disruptions. That meant that either they were that good at stealth, or that they were being allowed to move freely. Daphne herself was inclined to suspect the latter even as she hoped for the former. If leaving them alone was part of their enemies’ plan, then what did those enemies even want? For Daphne and her friends to free Potter and Weasley and all the other Ministry employees from the amber? But why?

Guessing around was useless at this point. She’d go where she needed to go and do what was required of her. All other concerns were rather secondary.

She only hoped that Draco was okay – him and Pansy, even though that didn’t seem very likely after the stunt Pansy and the remaining wizards and witches were going to pull (had already pulled?) in Wales. Then again, if anyone could survive hell, it was her.

There was no time to waste energy thinking about that, either.

Daphne hadn't even made it to the nearest railway (train? Underground? Whatever) station (cradle?) when she heard the first sirens approaching. Farther away, there were screams. A quick look over her shoulder was enough: she saw thick black smoke rising from the trees, smack in the middle of the park. It hurt her a little, yes, but like she explained to Luna, they didn’t have a choice.

Better to get the ball rolling.

Ignoring the slosh of acid in her stomach, her freezing hands, and the ungodly itch brought on by all the magic suppression in the air, she made her way to Ealing, where Nox’s top lieutenant put his feet up after a gruelling day of committing genocide.

 

* * *

 

 

**6** **The neighbourhood where Joshua Lucesco’s house was situated was pretty,** but deserted. The point of setting fire to the park had been to lure the authorities’ eyes away from the house in Ealing. The illusions inside the Jeeps had been supposed to convey the idea that the little group had only split up into two smaller ones: a trio and a duo. Therefore, Daphne would ideally be able to slip through the cracks unnoticed and sneak into this Lucesco person’s house – refuge in audacity and all that.

Now, though, Daphne had to wonder if they hadn't counted on one of them trying to get into that damn place all along. The streets were deserted. The quiet was both eerie and unsettling. At the very least, people had been instructed to stay inside. In all probability, however, the neighbourhood was being watched, diversion or no diversion.

It didn’t matter. Daphne didn’t have the luxury of turning around. If they were watching her, they’d catch her any time they liked, especially if she veered off-script. If they weren't, then she didn’t have much time to sneak into the house in question. Maybe there was nothing sinister going on…at least not more sinister than usual. Maybe the chaos in Brecon Beacons and in St. James’s Park was enough to divert –

(Draco)

(Pansy)

(all of them)

 – enough attention. Who knew? Only one way to find out.

Wrapping her arms around herself to protect her upper body from the humid, chilly wind, she marched forward until she found the house she was supposed to break into until Draco and Hermione managed to switch off the suppressor in North Acton.

 

* * *

 

 

**7** **The house wasn’t as much a house as it was a mansion.** These were rich people and no mistake. It wasn’t as humongous as Malfoy Manor, of course, but for a city residence, it looked particularly expensive – not too modern, either. If Daphne were to guess, she’d say the place was at least a hundred years old: three stories, white walls, oriel windows, red tiles, iron fence, respectably-sized garden.

To Daphne, it looked foreboding.

Her skin erupted in gooseflesh. Her stomach panged. She pressed her lips together and pushed open the gate. It even creaked a little. Hm. Now, if she were to find the front door unlocked, she’d know that this was a trap.

It wasn’t. Paradoxically, she exhaled in relief. This wasn’t a cause for celebration, but still. Maybe the guy had left a spare key somewhere? After she took off those ludicrous sunglasses, she checked under the mat, under the cracked earthenware vase…no. Not in the small crack in front of the threshold, either. But…could it? She hunkered down, flipped open the narrow mail slot. That was much too narrow for a big person to squeeze their hand inside. Then again, it was doubtful that anyone would bother to look, and-

Oh. There it was.

She supposed that Mr Lucesco had a way of fishing the key out, should he ever lose the actual set or whatever. Not that it mattered. After casting a look over her shoulder and making sure that nobody was looking (nobody she could see, anyway), she pushed her right hand into the slot as far as it would go. With her fingertips, she managed to touch the key and manoeuvre it to herself.

What she wouldn’t give for being able to simply summon it via magic.

If they ever got to restore the world to a semblance of status quo, she’d never take spell-casting for granted again.

When she shot to her feet, silver-coloured key in hand, she saw stars, but managed to keep standing. Stupid blood pressure. There was no more time to waste: she unlocked the door, hurried inside, and re-locked it, before slipping the key into the pocket of her trousers.

She stepped cautiously through the roomy lobby, took in her surroundings, and felt a pang. This was the lovingly decorated home of avid bibliophiles: everywhere, there were book shelves overflowing with hardcovers, some of which looked as old as the house itself.

There was no time to feel a connection to one of the people responsible for the genocide of hers. It always worked like that, didn’t it? She might be willing to empathise with anyone who showed a trace of humanity, but they sure as hell didn’t extend her the same courtesy. To them, she was a monster, something less than human, something that should be exterminated like vermin. As quickly as it surfaced, Daphne trampled down the memory of Astoria bleeding to death in Draco’s arms. If there wasn’t time for empathy, there wasn’t time for grief, either.

Now, where might the little shit have any information on his Supreme Leader lying around? She stepped into the house proper and scratched her neck. Damn magic-

Oh.

Feeling like an idiot, she pulled the stupid thing out of her pocket and switched it off. The itch remained. Obviously, Draco and Hermione hadn't been successful yet. It wasn’t her problem. There was no-one around to detect her presence. She’d leave the pocket suppressor switched off, the better to tell when (if) her friends succeeded.

She found the house’s study: a large, rectangular room whose walls were all but covered in what must be thousands of books. At one end stood a gigantic, heavy-looking, dark, wooden desk and chair. Opposing this was a beautiful fireplace, on whose mantelpiece a number of framed pictures were arranged. All of these looked decades old. They were family pictures. Daphne bit her tongue and swallowed down the bile that shot down her throat. _Fuck_ these people. She hoped they’d all died horribly.

The red-hot fury vaporised as soon as it popped up. It left a sour taste in her mouth.

After rubbing at her itchy eyes, she hurried over to the desk. A bunch of papers was precariously stacked on them – nothing of import. Perhaps in the drawers? Three of them contained ancient, dusty office supplies. The fourth, however…maybe. Just maybe.

Almost expecting a booby-trap, she pulled a relatively big and thick, leather-covered book out and started thumbing through the pages. Was…wait, was this parchment? Not paper, but actual parchment? It…

Holy crap.

Her eyes grew wide. These were…oh God, these were _annals_. These were annals chronicling every single magical family there was (or at least had been): Purebloods, Halfbloods…crikey. Everyone. Unable to shake the odd sensation of being caught in a bad dream, she found her own family, traced her fingertips over the elegant handwriting that spelled her own name.

Astoria’s was crossed out.

All blood drained from her face. Her innards roiled worse than ever. Her hands were shaking so badly, reading the words on the page she was looking at made her nauseous. She slammed the damn thing shut and gripped it tightly, bending its edges as her knuckles shone white through her already pale skin.

They had a whole list of witches of wizards here that they were striking through, one by one.

Some names were crossed out.

Some were circled.

Hers was unmarked.

She felt ill. To fight the nearly overwhelming urge to run out of this horrible house blindly, she pulled the chair and dropped herself in it. Her legs were too wobbly to support her own weight, anyway. She knew that she needed to keep looking, needed to find more, but somehow, it seemed to her that the answer to the main question was to be found in this terrible book – the answer to the question that mattered most: why.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All get ready for the big confrontation. Daphne ponders her unsettling discovery. Pansy wakes up in an unlikely place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There are both a Star Trek and a Star Wars reference hiding in there - subtle, I hope, yet undeniably present.

 

**1** **“Honestly, I really don’t see any need for further masquerade,”** Malfoy told Hermione, as they escorted their fidgety prisoner through the streets of London, toward the N.A.S.C. “We are obviously being allowed to roam freely.”

“You were the one who said we shouldn’t get carried away by speculation,” she retorted, adjusting her beanie for what seemed like the millionth time, “or something of the sort. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, sounding amused.

When she looked at him, she saw he was smiling a little. She couldn’t help but return the expression. “Mock me if you must.”

“I don’t _have_ to, but it brings a tiny bit of entertainment into my dreary little life.”

“Well, I’m glad to be of service. Not only am I perfect in every way, I am also beyond selfless.”

Walking ahead of them, Shelley just cast a look at them over his shoulder. He looked thoroughly annoyed. Not that anyone cared.

Malfoy chuckled.

They turned a corner. There weren't too many people around, but enough. None of them looked particularly happy. Well, the times were certainly hard.

Hermione had to admit that they hadn't been particularly easy even before the current debacle.

“It’s probable that we won’t survive the day,” Malfoy said, after a minute or two.

She almost told him to dial down the doom and gloom, but then it dawned on her that he was going somewhere with this. If they really were about to traipse right into a trap, then he deserved to have his say; they all did.

After briefly pressing his fist to his lips and harrumphing, he said, “I used to be sure about how the world works. Then, Voldemort happened. Now, all this shit is happening. I’ve come to understand that it doesn’t make a lick of difference if someone’s from an old wizarding family or not. It’s skill that matters…skill and character.” He gave her the opportunity to reply, but since she had the feeling that he wasn’t done, she remained silent. “My family is” – He shook his head in annoyance – “ _was_ pure-blooded – my aunt Bellatrix, for example. How can anyone say that she was better than you?”

That seemed to be it.

Hermione just let this sink in for a moment. To her, it was stating the bloody obvious, of course. Not that this whole blood prejudice nonsense had ever hit her confidence particularly hard, but it had been such a casual bit of bigotry, she’d had trouble wrapping her mind around it. Why discriminate people based on what families they were born into instead of judging their actions? However, Malfoy had grown up believing this intolerant idiocy. That wasn’t an excuse, of course. Still, she understood that for him, admitting he’d been prejudiced couldn’t be easy. Admitting a fundamental flaw was horribly hard; she could definitely appreciate that.

That was when she understood something else, too: this was his attempt at a personal apology – an apology for using racial slurs against her.

Hm. Would the wonders ever cease?

“It’s all right,” she said, her voice level. “I forgive you.”

“Please. In no way was I asking for-”

“Yes. Yes, you were.”

He gave her such a dirty look, it was beyond comical.

Unable to help herself, she snickered.

Another wonder took place: the scowl melted off his face and he smiled. “You are _beyond_ obnoxious.”

“It so happens that I excel at everything. In terms of obnoxiousness, you’re not far behind, either, I’ll have you know.”

“You both are,” Shelley said, quietly fuming. There seemed to be two aspects in play: his urge to complain and his fear of provoking a violent reaction. The result was almost sitcom-worthy. “The N.A.S.C. is right there. Maintenance entrance is around back.”

The brief moment of levity passed. Hermione’s stomach panged. Serious as a heart-attack, she said, “Don’t be a hero, Percy. Lead us inside, and we won’t hurt you.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Malfoy said, unsmiling, “but I suppose it’s too late to back out, now.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Josh made sure that Mary was all right and safe before he trekked over to Windsor Castle.** Being who he was, he had the highest security clearance and didn’t have to undergo any checks beside the obvious. After the soldiers in charge of castle security had confirmed that Josh was who he claimed to be and that he wasn’t under magical control, they called ahead and announced him to the boss. Not long after that, Josh joined Nox in the magnificent, _sublime_ Crimson Drawing Room. Josh had always been a sucker for medieval strongholds, centuries-old manors, old libraries, museums, etc. A few times, when he’d been a kid and visiting his mother’s family, he’d wanted to visit Windsor, but the masses of tourists waiting in line had always been way too huge. Now, the stronghold was closed to tourists. It might be necessary, sure, but the thought that all this splendour, all this historicity was not available to the public anymore made him a little wistful.

He strode into the room with all the purpose he could muster. It felt so, _so_ good to be on the move again, to be doing something, anything but sitting in an office like a chump. Still, he had to admit that he felt a little rotten about ignoring his orders and panicking. There was always something; sometimes, it was other people’s fault. Sometimes, it was his own.

The boss was standing in the middle of the room. He looked calm and friendly, not at all upset with Josh. That was good. Could be something else, though: maybe he was so pissed off, he needed to keep a lid on it in order not to explode. It had happened before, only not because of some mistake of Josh’s.

Josh had to admit, Nox was much, much better at keeping his anger at bay than Josh himself was. To be fair, so were most people. This had only gotten worse after 1998, but in the end, he knew that his trauma wasn’t a good excuse for bad behaviour. His parents had taught him to own up to his mistakes; he at least tried to. “I got here as quickly as I could.”

“I appreciate it.” Nox motioned to a line of chairs standing in a row underneath a few Renaissance-era oil paintings. All of them were treasures in their own right. “Please, have a seat. We have much to talk about, yet little time.”

All this pleasant kindness was enough to make Josh feel like a horrible douche for going against orders. Dang it. His eyes downcast and shoulders a bit slumped, he all but dragged his feet like a scolded kid over to the chairs and plopped himself on one of them. “Man, I got to say, I messed up. I’m sorry.”

Nox sat down to his right. “It’s not your fault. I should’ve talked to you about this before. I couldn’t expect you to let Mary be endangered. You didn’t know that I had everything under control. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Still, I feel like a moron.”

“Don’t. But let’s not waste any more time on this, okay? I need to explain to you why I’m allowing the witches to switch off the N.A.S.C. magic suppressor.”

Josh’s stomach lurched. He stared at Nox as if the latter had lost his mind. “Excuse me? Are you _serious_?”

“Hear me out, please. I believe you owe me that much.” He waited, but Josh made no reply. “You see, I need them to get inside the Ministry of Magic and free a very specific person. This person will then help me get something I need out of the last magical location left in all of Britain.”

“What’s that?”

An impish smile curved up the corners of Nox’s mouth. There was an almost feverish shimmer in his blue eyes. “Something that will save the world.”

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **After she found the strange wizard histories in Joshua Lucesco’s desk drawer,** Daphne wanted nothing more than to run away from that horrible house. That, of course, wasn’t an option. She had to wait until Draco and Hermione switched off the big magic suppressor in North Acton. It couldn’t be long now, one way or another. Besides, panic was never a smart option. Of course, if someone were to come into the house, she’d take the back door exit out of the kitchen and run for dear life. It was unlikely, though. All of this peace and quiet all over London was way too convenient. In all probability, the Malleus didn’t think she’d find anything of worth here.

Sitting at the heavy desk, she thoughtfully paged through the leather-bound book. Had they left this thing in the desk drawer on purpose? To be honest, she didn’t think so. That didn’t mean this was in any way true, of course, but it did seem logical to her. After all, they _had_ allowed the ragtag little band of witches and wizards to drive right into London, split up, wreak some havoc. This was all, presumably, part of a plan that involved getting them to free something or someone out of the amber inside the Ministry of Magic. That meant that at least Nox, who was pulling all the strings, was exceedingly confident in his control over the situation. Why even bother thinking about locking away every single document concerning the wizarding world? After all, this was only a list of names, and they’d never even tried to hide that they had inside knowledge – inside knowledge they’d clearly got from _somewhere_. In all likelihood, this list of magic people didn’t change anything.

Daphne imagined that this might be the mentality: overconfidence in the face of an overwhelming imbalance of power. Trivialities didn’t matter in the great scheme of things when you were in charge of the whole damn planet. It was normal that the powers that be started letting details slip – for instance, a book that listed all known witches and wizards in Britain: the living, the dead, and the taken.

She couldn’t tell why it mattered, this little book, but she had a distinct feeling that it did. It wouldn’t come to her, not under these circumstances, but if she lived to see another day, she was sure that it would.

A book. A book filled with names. Some crossed out, some circled, some unmarked.

It wasn’t difficult to deduce what this meant. But why did it _matter_? Well, it mattered because this slim volume, this forgotten or carelessly left behind little thing could not only inform Daphne and the others about who was still at large in Britain. It could contain information even more relevant, answer a question that was, in the end, the most pressing: what was the enemy even after? Yes, yes: they were out to end all magic on the planet. That, at least, was the party line, what was sold to the masses. Fear of magic was spread, paranoia fed, resentments encouraged until the perfect scapegoat was created. This was basic for totalitarianism: focussing public hostility on one specific target – in this case magic folk – in order to distract from the fact that the citizens were being robbed of their rights, piece by piece. It all seemed to basic, didn’t it? And yet, no-one had been able to stop the current disaster.

Everyone had asked themselves the most obvious questions: why did this happen? How did it happen? How could it be stopped? Who was to blame?

However, there was one question that had, so far, slipped almost everybody’s mind during these five years of losing a war: what was _actually_ going on, here? Was the proclaimed reason the genuine one? There was something about this book, about this list of people that made Daphne think there was so much more happening behind the scenes. One obvious reason why she suspected this was the fact that a number of wizards and witches hadn't been shot on sight, but captured. The book confirmed this – if she was interpreting the markings right, naturally. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Some were killed, some were captured. Those captured were taken for a reason. Maybe the endgame was still to eradicate magic, but why do it in such a roundabout way? And what sense did it ultimately make to use magic in order to end it?

There was something there, right underneath the surface: a secret waiting to be uncovered.

Daphne just had to live long enough to find out what it was.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **As they approached the grey, foreboding N.A.S.C. building,** Hermione couldn’t shake the nigh-on certainty that they were doing exactly what they shouldn’t be doing, namely what the enemy expected of them. Did it really make sense to go through with this when it was being made so easy for them? She’d told Malfoy that they needed to be quicker than their enemy the moment they’d sprung the trap – assuming all of this was a trap in the first place. Was that even possible? What chance did they have against opponents this powerful and well-organised?

Her thoughts wandered to the days before she’d left the Brecon Beacons camp. Everyone had been against her leaving, had called her idea pure suicide. Especially Bill and Fleur had resented her for leaving, had accused her of bolting on Ron. She, however, had been adamant that she had to do this, that she had to try.

She was doing this for him, too, because she couldn’t stand it to just sit there and watch him die. After all that they’d been through together, how could she just do _nothing_? She couldn’t. That was why she’d been sure, so sure that she needed to go and either find a way to free her friends at the Ministry or die trying.

Was that conviction still there, now that she knew she’d been expected all along?

They stepped across the N.A.S.C. car park, around the building, toward the maintenance entrance.

“It’s too late to back down now,” she said quietly.

“Quite. As I already told you. Do pay attention,” Malfoy said. He didn’t sound too sure of himself, though. On the contrary: he sounded close to panic, actually.

It wasn’t as if Hermione could blame him. Her hands were cold, her mouth dry, her innards cramping. Fear was healthy scepticism of the unknown, wasn’t it? As long as she didn’t panic, she could use her fear as a tool. Well, at least there was no-one around to watch them smuggle themselves inside. Maybe that too was deliberate. She wouldn’t put anything past those people, especially not careful planning ahead.

“If they catch you, you’re done,” Shelley said, sounding more resigned than aggressive. “You don’t have key cards, but a gun and a suspicious-looking rucksack? There’s no way you’ll get to the-”

“You’ll notice that I want your opinion the moment I ask for it,” Malfoy cut in dryly. “Open the bloody door and lead us inside.” What he didn’t say was that once they were inside the building proper, they wouldn’t need Shelley’s guidance anymore.

They only needed his key card. Directions weren't required. After all, his sister Mary had drawn them a floor map before they’d even left Bexhill-on-Sea.

“It’s your funeral,” Shelley said, and opened the door.

They stepped inside.

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **Pansy woke slowly, gradually.** She felt as if she’d slept for a century. Her body was sore, but the crippling agony she’d been in before unconsciousness took her was gone. She waited until her heartrate started climbing somewhat, until warmth crept back into her limbs. Then, she tried to open her eyes. It was difficult, as if she’d been sedated for quite a while. Well, at least she was lying on something soft – a mattress, apparently. There was a pillow, too, and covers pulled up over her chest. Was this a real bed? There was something oddly familiar about the feel of this place, wherever _this_ was. It was, to a certain extent, the smell: a curious mix of stone, fresh linen, and disinfectant – something else, too. What was it? Smelled like…

…it smelled like the kind of potion a person would get if they’d been suffering from some sort of serious infection, or perhaps a curse.

There was more to it than that. She…oh, it was difficult to think clearly, coherently. She’d been hurt – badly hurt. She vaguely remembered contemplating her own end. There had been a lot of pain, and she’d been in and out of consciousness. There had…there…someone had helped. Someone. A woman. A friend. Callidora Selwyn. She-

Brecon Beacons. Wales. The camp. The enemy soldiers sent there not to kill, but to capture.

As Pansy took slow and deep breaths and waited until she regained full control of her body, she worked to put her internal ramblings in order, worked to find the right chronology. They’d had a pocket of magic working for them right until the Malleus forces had shown up. They’d come with their suppressors, of course, to neutralise the magical threat. Those things were horrible. Wherever magic was suppressed, a witch or wizard immediately felt as if they didn’t belong in their own skin. There was always that itch, that terrible itch, like a thousand ants crawling all over not only the skin, but inside it, too. It was beyond nasty.

Granger had called it an allergic reaction. She’d probably hit the nail on the head, too – usually did, that one.

Pansy found herself genuinely hoping that Granger was alive and kicking. That she wanted Draco and Daphne to live was obvious, was elementary. Now, she had to admit that she didn’t just not want Granger, a witch, to be dead. No, she actually cared. It was rather hilarious, wasn’t it? If only her teenage self had been slightly more self-aware. Things might have been different then.

When she realised that she’d begun to doze off again, she told herself to knock it off. Both nostalgia and self-pity were self-congratulatory impulses that didn’t deserve indulgence – not more than they already got, anyway. After all, everyone felt sorry for themselves at some point…or got lost in reverie.

She focussed all her energy on finally emerging from her syrup-like slumber. It worked, too: her heartbeat became faster, her breathing picked up. She got warm. Finally, she managed to blink, even though her vision was still blurred; she couldn’t keep her eyes open more than a second or two, though. Didn’t matter. Progress was progress.

“She’s waking up. Oi! Someone! Parkinson’s waking up!”

That voice was familiar. It didn’t cause the most positive of emotions in her – mostly irritation, actually – but anything that was familiar was good. She heard the creak of a bedspring, then lurching steps approaching her own bed.

“You all right? The nurse’ll be here in a moment. She went to get some herbs or whatnot. One of the kiddies out their fell off his broom,” the voice said. It was definitely a male voice. This was also _definitely_ someone she knew.

Nurse? Kiddies? Broom?

This had to be a dream.

Laboriously, she first shut her eyes even tighter, then forced them open. At first, everything was blurry. She blinked. After a moment, things began to get into focus. This place. It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_. Had she and some of the others truly made it and lived to tell the tale? Unbelievable. Unbelievable! She locked eyes with the person standing by her bed, watching her with guarded caution – pale, skinny, with dark rings under his eyes and shaggy red hair.

Pansy stared at him as recognition hit her like lightning. “ _Weasley?_ ”

“Can’t really believe it, either,” he said, and scratched his neck with one of his bony hands. “Anyway. Do you need the nurse?”

“Nurse, I…no. Could you lend me a hand? I need to sit.”

He helped her prop up her pillow, so that she could lean against it.

After she managed that, she was breathing heavily. Sweat bloomed on her forehead and nose. “Sit down. You look like you’re gonna capsize at any moment.”

Without protest, he did, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

She let her gaze wander across he big, cavernous room: a vaulted ceiling, high windows that let in slanted beams of sunlight, a stone floor, rows of beds and nightstands. Of course, she’d been here before, even if never overnight as a patient. Memories bubbled up – good memories. Innocent memories. She briefly chewed on the inside of her cheek. “How are you still alive?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Everyone said I should be long dead. Guess I held on just to prove ‘em wrong.”

“You get that from Granger. She’ll be over the moon.”

Several emotions crossed his face: love, pride, resentment. “If she’s still alive. If she knows to come here. We all thought it was a death trap.” He grimaced. “Maybe it is. It’s complicated.”

“How much magic do they have left here?”

“All of it. The place is locked tight against those wankers.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “ _All_ of it?”

“All of it. Just can’t get out, is all. Details, though. They’ll explain it to you soon enough.”

“They?”

“The others. Old McGonagall, for starters.”

“I…she…she’s alive.”

He cracked a smile. “Not that easy to kill, that one…and here we were, thinking they’d got her. Should’ve known better, eh?” When he saw her opening her mouth to unleash a barrage of questions, he raised both hands, palms outward – a universal gesture beckoning for patience. “You’ll get all the details soon enough. Relax a bit. You almost bit it, you know. Creepy Selwyn got you in just in the nick of time.”

Again, she looked about herself. Nothing had changed, had it? She thought about her third year, when Hagrid’s monstrous pet had nearly killed poor Draco. The Gryffindors hadn't quite seen it this way, but who cared about them?

Before she knew what was happening, she slapped her hands to her face and burst into tears. For the first time in over half a decade, she was actually crying.

It really was true. She was inside Hogwarts. For the moment, Pansy was safe.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's show-time for our little band of rebels. Meanwhile, Pansy has to come to terms with what's going on around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains both a reference to Stephen King's 'The Dark Tower' novels and to the song 'The Last Unicorn', by America.

 

**1** **All of this was obviously a trap.** That much became clear when Shelley, hands shaking, used his plastic key card to open the back maintenance door to the N.A.S.C.. In fact, his hands were shaking so badly, he dropped the card once. He flinched hard at that, cussing as he fumbled to pick the damn thing up again, as if he expected to be shot in the head for messing up out of nervousness. The whole thing didn’t last more than a few seconds, but it was loud and rather conspicuous. The N.A.S.C. was a high-security facility, so there had to be cameras on them; there should be guards patrolling.

Nobody else showed up.

They were positively making a spectacle of themselves here, and yet, nobody else showed up. The truth was, Hermione and Malfoy could probably just have waltzed in brazenly through the front door and would have been allowed to switch the apparatus off anyway.

Probably.

Even so, Hermione didn’t want to make it too obvious to her enemies that she knew the whole set-up to be deliberate. She’d sounded more or less confident when she’d told Malfoy that all they needed to do was be quicker than Nox and his cronies, but the odds _were_ stacked massively against them. That was simply a fact. Still, this didn’t mean she wouldn’t operate under the assumption that they could best their foes. If she couldn’t manage at least that, then she might as well curl up and die, and that was not an option.

Ron’s days were running out; all their days were.

Thankfully, all this misery would be over soon.

_Thankfully_ (and in a much more immediate and less melodramatic fashion), Shelley managed to open the door and lead them inside. Once the door closed again – with an ominous, hollow clanking sound to boot – he said, “This will never work. If you leave now-”

“Another one of those, and I’ll sock you in the teeth. I don’t care if I break my knuckles doing it, either,” Malfoy cut in, rubbing at his forehead, sounding comically like the put-upon father of a wayward little brat.

For the briefest of moments, Hermione wondered whether he was self-aware enough to understand why this was funny. She plucked Mary’s map from her pocket and unfolded it. “According to this-”

“ _That’s my sister’s handwriting!_ ” Shelley bellowed, jumping, eyes wide, making the others flinch. “ _What did you do to her, you-_ ” He was abruptly silenced when a fist connected with his jaw, causing a sickening crunch. Shelley’s head hit against the concrete wall, producing another of those loud cracks. Then, his face slackened, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the hard floor like a sack of potatoes.

Hermione whirled around to find Malfoy cradling his hand.

He was grimacing. “ _Ow_.” To Shelley, he said, in a rather unfittingly conversational tone, “I told you.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot anyone out of shock,” Hermione said, wanting to snap at him and hearing herself sound like an exasperated teacher, instead.

“We don’t need him anymore, anyway,” Malfoy said, shrugged, hunkered down, and picked up Shelley’s lost key card.

“I told him we wouldn’t hurt him!” Hermione’s heart was thundering. She looked at the crumpled heap that was their knocked-down hostage and felt ill. What if he was seriously injured?

“Only if he cooperated, and he wasn’t anymore. He was very clearly panicking. Now stop wringing your hands and let’s-”

“What if what you did gave him brain damage?” She couldn’t stop staring at the slack-jawed man on the floor. He was bleeding! This-

“Granger. _Granger_.”

Her stomach was roiling badly now. “If someone gets knocked on the head and doesn’t wake within a few minutes, then they’ve probably got permanent brain damage, and-”

“Hermione.” He said this in a quiet, not unfriendly, but definitely tense tone of voice.

She couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but that was what snapped her out of it. “I’m okay.” She unglued her eyes off Shelley and made herself face Malfoy. “Your hand isn’t broken, is it?”

“No.” Strangely enough, he smiled a little. It wasn’t a smirk or a sneer or a grin. It was a genuine, if subtle smile. Suited him, didn’t it? Like it would suit anyone to look like a sympathetic human being. Because that was what this was: sympathy. “He wouldn’t think twice about feeding you to the basilisk. Don’t waste your compassion on the likes of him – not now. We simply haven’t got the luxury.”

With the back of the hand still clasping the map – it was shaking, too, as was the rest of her – she wiped sweat off her nose. “Okay. Let’s hurry.” She cleared her throat, squinted at the map, and pointed ahead. “We need to go ahead, pass two corridors, and then take the staircase to the left. It’s in the basement.”

“Lead the way,” he said, still in that weirdly friendly tone, still wearing that weirdly friendly smile.

Well, who was she to complain? The whole world had turned strange. She nodded curtly, held on tightly to the map, and held the gun out to him.

He hesitated, but took it anyway.

Without another word, they set off to do what all parties involved were expecting them to.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Thankfully, Weasley the Younger** waited in patient silence as Pansy bawled her stupid bloody eyes out. She had no idea how long she stayed that way – three minutes? Ten? Probably longer. Small wonder, really: for half a decade, all she’d done was suppress all her emotions as best (and as violently) as she was able to, everything that would no doubt have broken her down, incapacitated – maybe even killed her. All the pain, the fear, the confusion, doubt, and uncertainty, the deep-seated (dreaded) yet unwelcome belief that she’d never manage to live through another moment of quiet happiness. Now, after nearly dying, after then finding herself in relative safety inside a place she loved, she could finally let it all out.

She’d never admit this openly to anyone, but the sensation was _amazing_. Damn it, but crying her heart out felt like heaven.

Meanwhile, Weasley laboriously rose to his feet, shuffled off, shuffled back.

When she had herself under a semblance of control again, she looked at him and saw that he was holding out a handkerchief – Hogwarts standard, the crest of all four Houses embroidered on the corner. Lovely. So, so lovely. She snatched it from his hand, loudly blew her nose, and said, “Thanks.”

He retook his seat on the edge of the mattress and blew out a heavy breath. Truth be told, he was a little green around the gills, but recovery from years of illness – and one that had only just not become the death of him, poor sod – couldn’t be easy. He said, “Don’t mention it,” and yawned. Strands of his carroty hair fell into his pasty forehead.

“You don’t have to say _that_ one twice.” Her voice was raspy, tremulous. Her eyes were sore, her face hot, her hands icy. Just your garden-variety breakdown, really.

For a moment, both just stayed like that, in somewhat uncomfortable silence. From outside, cool fresh air brought in the laughter of children.

Okay, that was odd.

Very odd, actually.

“How _old_ are they?” Pansy heard herself saying. Her head was still a little mushy, apparently. “Even the youngest first-years admitted should be sixteen by now. It’s been five years since Hogwarts was sealed off.”

A warm little smile lit up his pale, haggard face. Weasley the Younger definitely needed to put some weight back on. He looked like a skeleton. “The youngest children around are three new-born babies. They told me the last one popped out five days ago.”

Wait…what? _What_? How-

Understanding struck her like lightning. For a moment, she was unable to move or breathe. By the skin of her teeth, she managed not to start bawling again. Still, she didn’t dare use much more than a whisper, when she asked, “How many are here? People. Wizards. Witches.”

His smile grew. His eyes reddened. He sniffled, broke off eye-contacted, shifted his weight a bit, and then snickered awkwardly. After mopping at his eyes, he said, “Over a thousand. Many we-” He sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, closed his eyes, pressed his lips closely together. After a few seconds, he had himself under control again. Good man. He looked her in the eye, and said, “Many we believed dead. It’s only a small number if you think about how many we _used_ to be, but…” Again, he breathed out heavily, and ran his bony hands through his shaggy mop of hair. “Yeah. You know.”

“I know.” Oh God, was she really having a chummy, understanding conversation with Ronald Weasley, of all people? Yes. Yes, she was. Well, nothing like a good bit of near death to put things into perspective.

A minute or so went by, after which he straightened his posture and almost grinned at her. “Some of your old friends have been here all along, you know.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Like who?”

“Theodore Nott, for one. Bill told me that McGonagall told him – at least I think it was McGonagall, but-”

“Weasley. Focus.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” He made a face. “Killjoy. But okay. So, apparently, Nott was in the library doing some sort of ultra-secret research when the walls went up, and he’s been at it ever since.”

It took her poor, maltreated brain a moment to properly compute this new input. “Wait, are you telling me that _Theo_ has been working on a way to save us all?”

His only reply was to shrug.

Instead of almost starting to bawl again, this time she nearly broke down laughing. The temptation to allow this to happen was big; after all, Weasley might believe she’d gone mad, which would be amusing. But no. She kept her composure, and said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. Theo was always a bit of a tinkerer with a dash of insane inventor. Hell, maybe this time, it won’t be Saint Potter to rescue us from the clutches of evil after all.”

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Waiting inside that horrible house was almost unbearable,** but Daphne could still feel the itch of the magic suppressor, and there was no leaving before that damn thing was turned off. She couldn’t just sit around gawping at that creepy magic folk census, either. No, it was time to get active. She grabbed the book with all the thousands of names of every single witch and wizard in the United Kingdom and got to her feet. Thankfully, her legs weren’t as wobbly as they’d been five minutes ago. By the coatrack, she’d spotted a rucksack – one of those people wore on hiking trips. She headed over, spilled the few contents of the thing on the floor – it included a granola bar wrapper and the world’s oldest raisin – shoved the leather-bound book inside, and shouldered it. If she had to leave in a hurry, then at least she wouldn’t drop the book. It may have been left behind on purpose or not, but she knew it was important.

Time to search the rest of the house.

Even though Daphne felt like smashing every single framed picture that was hanging from a wall or lovingly displayed on some shelf or other, she made herself pay attention to the people in them. There were a lot of people in those photographs (creepily unmoving): a young couple and a small boy in most of them. The boy – presumably the genocidal waste of space who currently resided here – wore the fluffy haircut and bright-coloured clothes of about two decades past. He was blond and handsome, like the man who was clearly his father. The mother – always smiling, looking bright and happy – was brown-haired, rosy-skinned, full-figured, and pretty.

There were other people in some of the pictures, as well, but those three dominated the landscape, so to speak. Funnily enough, none of the photos looked any younger than ten years. The boy in the pictures was a teenager in some of them, but never an adult. It wasn’t so hard to conclude that the parents had died. Not that Daphne gave a damn, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the fate of this little family was somehow significant to the whole disaster they were currently trying to reverse.

Why was that census in _here_ , of all places? Why in the house of a Muggle enforcer? Why was it handwritten on parchment? Muggles didn’t use parchment. They used paper. More importantly, they didn’t do much in terms of handwriting anymore, from what Daphne had gathered over the past five years.

From the soldier they had captured, Mary, Daphne and her friends had found out that this Lucesco person was definitely a Muggle. So what the hell was going on here? It certainly made sense once one had enough information to complete the puzzle, but so far, Daphne still lacked the key pieces. No, that wasn’t quite accurate, either. She probably had all she needed, but just couldn’t arrange the metaphorical pieces correctly.

A magical census written on parchment, kept inside the desk drawer of a Muggle. A Muggle who lived by himself in a huge house filled with sad memories. A Muggle with dead parents – parents who were at least ten years gone, now.

Ten years.

There was something about that number, wasn’t there? Something important. Something that _mattered_.

Daphne carefully headed up the creaking stairs to the first floor, the cogs in her head turning.

More photos upstairs. From the amount of dust gathering in the bedrooms, only one of them – the big one – was being used. There was nothing of interest in there. But what of the abandoned ones? Worth a look, weren’t they?

She scratched her itchy, burning arms and suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t time to leave just yet.

There was one bedroom with a yellowed poster on its door. It depicted the faces of two men and a woman – one of the men reminded Daphne queerly of Sirius Black – above red fiery stripes and big letters that spelled out ‘The Fifth Element’. Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have had a clue what this was. Now, she knew that this poster advertised what Muggles called a ‘film’.

The one man _really_ looked a lot like Black, didn’t he? Creepy.

She shook her head, told herself to keep it together, and went into the room.

It was, for all intents and purposes, the bedroom of a pubescent child. The walls were covered in posters depicting people Daphne didn’t know. There was what she recognised as a television set mounted on the wall, opposite the bed. There was a desk; on it were a television-like monitor and a keyboard. On the floor next to this stood a white, rectangular apparatus. This was all connected by cables of sorts. What the hell was-

Oh, never mind.

Best to go through the desk drawers before her time ran out, right? Right. There was little of interest anywhere, which was exactly what she’d expected. All the dust was making her even itchier, and-

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. What was this?

From the bottom of the middle drawer, she pulled a sealed envelope – sealed with wax. On it, doubtlessly written in ink with a quill, ‘For Josh’ was engraved.

Daphne turned the envelope around, and mouthed, voiceless, what was written on the back: ‘From Mum.’

Could…could it be?

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

That would explain a lot.

After taking a deep, soothing breath, Daphne cracked the seal open, pulled the contents of the envelope out, and let the latter fall to the dusty carpeting. There were two things in her hands now: a letter and a photograph.

The photograph showed a young girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, standing on broad steps to a castle, waving, smiling. Wind tugged at her brown hair, her dark robes. The girl was definitely the same person as the woman in the many Muggle pictures. The castle was definitely Hogwarts. The picture was definitely moving.

This woman was definitely a witch – a Muggle-born witch, from the looks of it. A Muggle-born witch with a Muggle son. A Muggle-born witch who had died ten years back, in 1998.

1998 was the year the Second Wizarding War ended.

The war of Pureblood supremacists against Muggles, Muggle-borns, and all their allies.

Oh, dear.

Daphne could hear her own heart pumping, and little else. Her mouth was dry, her hands clammy. She unfolded the letter and read.

Oh, oh, oh. Now this? This explained _a lot_ – not everything, but a lot.

She only hoped that she’d get the chance to show this to the others.

They had a lot to talk about.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **Having had decades to complete an accurate census of the United Kingdom’s** entire wizarding population, Nox was of course very much aware of young Joshua’s true origins (and had knowingly kept Anna Taylor Lucesco’s name out of the census copy he’d written for her son). To be perfectly honest, he himself didn’t know exactly why he’d kept it to himself that Josh’s mother had been a Muggle-born witch and therefore a Death Eater target back in the halcyon days of Pureblood supremacists. Maybe because Josh wouldn’t have been able to handle the truth. Maybe because Nox had, until now, been waiting for an opportune moment, no, for the perfect moment to use this information to his own advantage.

Didn’t even matter – not anymore.

Now, it was time to let the proverbial cat out of the bag.

It could very well be that the poor lad might snap under the revelation. After all, he’d successfully lied to himself about the truth regarding his beloved mother his entire life. There’d been enough clues, but the boy hadn’t wanted to see any of them, especially not after mother’s untimely demise by the hands of a young Ravenclaw Death Eater called Callidora Selwyn.

Oh, Callidora. Such a delightfully hateable hypocrite was she.

Nox couldn’t wait to get his hands on that one, at the very least because she’d make the perfect distraction for Josh. Not that he didn’t have other reasons; he always did. Her time would come. None of them would escape. He would see to that.

At the moment, however, he needed to tell the boy as much as needed and as little as possible. Another temper-driven cockup would simply not do. Still, absolute truth was never for the faint-hearted.

They were in the Crimson Drawing Room, sitting side by side beneath the Renaissance oil paintings.

“There’s much you don’t know,” Nox said, and clapped a hand on Josh’s shoulder. “About wizards and witches.”

Josh shrugged and looked down at his hands between his knees. “I don’t need to know more. They’re evil. They all need to die.” There was something about this kind of black-and-white totalitarianism that was strangely endearing.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid. The problem is, this is the kind of knowledge that you wish you didn’t have once you do, but that unfortunately, I need to share with you.”

“I already wish we weren’t having this conversation.” The tone of voice he said this in was so miserable, it made him seem like half a child. Small wonder, really: he’d been wilfully blind for so long, he’d trapped himself in a tiny ideological box. It was most regrettable that reality couldn’t accommodate him.

“I know.” Nox gave Josh’s shoulder a squeeze and let go. “In reality, not all witches and wizards come from wizarding families. Some of them have mixed heritage, but in some cases, a witch or wizard can be born from a Muggle – a normal people – family. That means it’s not anybody’s fault.”

Colour drained from Josh’s already pretty white face. His eyes grew wide. He stared at Nox with a sort of sickened desperation that seemed close to a panic attack. “What? This can happen _randomly_?”

“That’s not what I said.” Impromptu lectures on the nature of magic were not exactly easy, let alone fun, it turned out. He suppressed a sigh. “It’s not random. Just like there will be a child born into a wizarding family without magical powers once in a while, now and again, a Muggle family will produce a witch or wizard.”

“Do…do you know why?” Josh’s hands were shaking. Poor kid.

“I think I do.” He found himself smiling a little. His heart picked up the pace. In fact, he felt both lighter and younger. “You know, we will never get this threat under control unless we manage to eliminate the possibility of children being randomly born with magical powers. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Despair was replaced by hope on Josh’s face. He even perked up a bit. Good. “Yes! So…is that what you’re after inside that…that castle?”

Nox smiled at him, knowing that the expression looked warm, friendly, and trustworthy. The trick was to not reveal too much truth at once. Truth, after all, stung like a bitch. There was no need to expose poor Joshua to too much of it at once. “Yes. But you see that this is dangerous information, don’t you? Something most people shouldn’t know?”

The boy nodded eagerly. “Sure! People would suspect each other, be afraid of every pregnancy, maybe even end up lynching babies! No, that can’t happen. I see that.”

But now, it was time for the hardest truth – the one Josh needed to know, because that one would drown out all the other questions.

“Joshua, there is something you need to know…something you probably already suspect, deep down.”

The look of impending illness returned. He said nothing, though.

Time to speed things up. There was a war to be won, here. “The civil war between wizards I’ve told you about…that was about so-called Pureblood wizards fighting against those of mixed ancestry and Muggle-borns. The Pureblood supremacists were hell-bent on eliminating Muggle-born wizards and enslaving regular humans. Some of the wizards and witches – those with Muggle relatives – resisted. Many were killed for their troubles, along with their families.”

And then, Josh did the rest of the work by himself. His eyes were brimming with tears. He lowered his head into his hands and took a deep, shaky breath. In little more than a whisper, he said, “My mom, right? She was one of them.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Josh sniffled loudly. “Oh God. I didn’t want to see it, but in a way, I knew. I _knew_ , man. I knew that there was something she was hiding from me, something monstrous inside her.”

Oh, the irony of it all. Some people didn’t know how lucky they were.

Nox put an arm around the poor lad. “I am so, so sorry. But you know what? Together, you and I can make sure that no-one will ever have to go through what happened to you – not ever again. Would you help me achieve that goal?”

For a moment, Josh remained paralysed, head in hands. Then, he took a few deep breaths, scratched his chest, and straightened up. “Whatever you need from me, my friend, you got it.”

“I know.” He leaned in and placed a kiss on the boy’s temple. Poor kid just wanted a family. That, in itself, was ironic enough. “I know.”

This was all the truth that Josh would ever need to stomach.

The rest would be too much for him, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **There was no doubt in Hermione’s mind** now that she and Malfoy were being allowed to roam freely inside the facility. There was simply no other explanation for it. This place should be packed with soldiers to protect it, since it was what kept potential magic users from using their powers and simply A-K-ing the lot of them. This realisation – no, this absolute _certainty_ – made what had happened to Percy Shelley even more pointless and awful. Okay, there was no knowing whether he’d suffered grave injuries, whether he’d died, but…

…well. It was obvious that he’d been at least hurt badly enough to break bone. And for what? He could’ve yelled his heart out, but no-one would have come to his aid.

But Malfoy couldn’t have known that, and neither could she.

The thing was, if Malfoy hadn’t knocked Shelley out, then he would’ve gone on shouting, and then Hermione might have shot him. Because they couldn’t be sure. Because they could take no risk.

As they hurried down the stairs, she thought she understood why Malfoy had just now acted in a friendly manner that seemed so uncharacteristic of him. He’d told her that he’d killed, and she’d countered that it probably ate at him. Now, she’d nearly panicked at the sight of a wounded enemy. She’d finally come in contact with true and necessary violence.

That was something he could relate to.

Oh dear, they were actually bonding over something here, weren’t they?

Strange times, indeed.

“Behind that door, there’s another corridor,” she said to him, over her shoulder, as she reached the basement level. “It’s right at the end. If this thing works like the portable ones, we only need to switch it off, kill the charm powering it, and Apparate into the Ministry.”

“And then, all will be unicorns and butterflies,” he said. “Lead on. I can’t wait to get out of this ugly dump.” Now, _that_ sounded like the Draco Malfoy everyone knew and cherished.

Hermione found herself smiling despite her knotted innards and aching head, despite the cold and the itch and the stupid beanie that was covering up her chopped-off hair. “Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. I mean, sure, the end of everything may be nigh, but that is no reason for poor taste in décor.”

Right behind her, Malfoy snorted laughter. “The end is nigh, indeed,” he said, chuckling. “And you know I’m a sucker for style.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Sucker? Where did you pick that one up?”

For the millionth time, it seemed, he took off the hat he was wearing, brushed back some of his pitch-black hair, and put the hat back on. The strand in question landed on his forehead again. “The origins of my newly-expanded vocabulary shall forever remain a mystery.” Still, not two seconds later, he added, “Actually, I had a lot of free time on my hands and read every single bad romance novel I could find in that beach-house.”

They reached the last door, unperturbed. The air was cold down here and smelled like powerful disinfectant, as well as concrete. The magic suppression charm was so strong, it was almost impossible for both Malfoy and Hermione to keep from scratching themselves bloody. There was a sort of low, droning hum in the air that made eyes water and teeth ache – sounded like some sort of ill machinery. That wasn’t too much of a surprise, was it? After all, this was not god out of a machine, but a machine out of magic. This was technology – something inherently human and logical and rational (and utterly perishable) – being powered by a force that was elemental, raw, by nature irrational, and eternal. No wonder the combination of the two produced such an ugly sound, such an ugly sensation.

Maybe this really was the end of all things, if such an abomination was possible. Maybe that was why the suppression of magic felt so horribly _wrong_ – because it was unnatural.

“All is not quiet in the halls of the dead,” she murmured, remembering a book she’d managed to pick up years ago.

“Cheerful,” he said dryly, and pushed Percy Shelley’s key card into the door lock’s slot. There was a clicking sound. A green light flashed out of a tiny bulb. Thankfully choosing not to stand on ceremony, he pulled the heavy, metal door open and both stepped into the…

…huh. What about that. They both stepped into a surprisingly small room.

“Is it ridiculous that I was expecting some underground cavern, perhaps with ominous choir music playing in the background?” He said, as Hermione joined him to stare, unbelieving, at the waist-high dome of whirring machinery that stood in the middle of the otherwise empty chamber.

“Not at all. This is almost a little disappointing,” she said, and shrugged.

“Well, I don’t care.” Not waiting for a reply of any kind, he took the three steps needed to get to the damn apparatus and hit the very obvious off-switch.

The result was _staggering_.

From one second to the next, the itchy, crawly sensation of a bad sunburn just up and vanished. It was gone, no traces left.

Both of them drew in sharp, tremulous breaths. Both reeled a little.

They exchanged the relieved, grateful looks of those who’d just been saved from drowning.

This time, it was Malfoy who recovered his composure more quickly. He pulled his wand out of his jacket pocket, pointed it at the suppressor, and said, “ _Finite incantatem_.”

At once, the machine threw a few sparks and went dead. The charm was gone. The suppressor had become useless.

He held out his hand to Hermione. “You said that we need to be faster than they are. So let’s get out of here.” When she hesitated, he added, very clearly trying not to sound impatient, “I know where we have to go. Trust me.”

“It’s not that.” She shook her head. “I just have a bad feeling about all this, Draco.” And there it was again, his first name. Weird. Somehow, it just felt appropriate.

“So do I, but we don’t have a choice. Now come on. I won’t let you spoil my chance to brag to Saint Potter how I saved him and his girlfriend.”

Smiling a little, her innards roiling, stars before her eyes, she stepped forward and took his hand. His skin was cold, like hers. “By all means, then. Let’s go be heroic.”

They wasted no more time and Apparated into an uncertain fate.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years before, in 2003, Ginny and Harry prepare to seal off the Ministry of Magic.

** London, 2003  **

**1** **Five years back,** a miracle had happened: forces combined, the Order of the Phoenix and all of their allies had managed to stop Voldemort and the Death Eaters from completely destroying all that was good in wizarding Britain. Well, Harry had killed Voldemort. Well, more precisely, Voldemort had killed himself by accident, but that was beside the point. The point was, the war ended on that stuffy summer morning in 1998, and everything changed for the better. Damage was repaired. Wounds were healed. The dead were mourned. The guilty were punished.

Ginny and Harry went from having a wartime romance to being in an actual relationship.

Out of the Golden Trio, only Hermione returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year. Therefore, she and Ginny shared a wonderful last year at school together – a year not devoid of sadness due to all the loss, but a year most certainly devoid of drama. There were no dark lords, no Death Eaters, no monsters or demons. There were only classes and exams and, at the end, a diploma.

After that was over, Ginny immediately got a job at the Ministry, courtesy of her good grades, courtesy of the role she’d played in the resistance, and partly due to Harry’s good word. She was grateful he put in a word for her, yes, but he could only help her open a door. Whether she managed to make a good job and climb the ranks was up to her.

That was how she, late in the year 2000, found herself as a member of the Ministry’s Research Committee…

…which was when she’d learned that something was wrong – very wrong.

The powers that be didn’t want the general wizarding population in the UK – counting at about twenty-five thousand in all – to know, but there was something strange going on. More and more Muggles were spreading actual, true information about magic – information that could only come from an insider. It started with pamphlets and articles in those conspiracy theory papers the Muggles seemed to love so much, but the situation worsened more and more. Soon, Muggle technology was being used to spread actual proof of magic: something called videos in a strange, new network called the internet.

As someone who could have done with no more drama, no more problems, no more war for the rest of her life, Ginny had to actively fight the impulse to just dismiss everything out of hand. Couldn’t be that bad, could it? Couldn’t actually be serious, could it? Couldn’t be threat, could it?

Could it?

A name started to circulate not only in the Muggle media, but also among wizarding outlets: Malleus Deorum. Latin, that was: Hammer of the Gods. If things had been different, if Ginny hadn’t been constantly under the impression that the whole world was about to blow up around her, she’d laughed at the presumptuousness of such a name – just as she would have at the name of the group’s presumed leader, some bloke named Nox. Whoever called themselves something like that, and why? That was the spell that extinguished light. It was Latin and meant ‘night’. Too much on-the-head symbolism that was – too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

Well.

What truly mattered, however, were only two questions: one, who was this person who held the power behind this frightening movement, and two, how were they spreading their influence so quickly?

At first, it was only rumours and say-so and a few of those videos.

Then, the first Muggle-born wizard children had to be secretly whisked away, for their own protection.

Then, there were the first reports about places where witches and wizards could no longer perform magic of any kind.

That was when Ginny had to admit that she was starting to feel a little scared – actually scared that these Muggle fanatics might succeed where their ancestors had once failed.

The entirety of the year 2002 and a good portion of 2003, she spent working on a contingency plan – a desperate, ludicrous, patently insane one, but it was a lot better than nothing. Should all the wizards and witches alike find themselves unable to stop the Malleus from taking away their magic, then the only thing left to do was seal magic away.

Minerva McGonagall was tirelessly working on a way to hide Hogwarts and Hogsmeade away as a possible last refuge. That was a sad, desperate thought, yes, but somewhat consoling. If everything else went wrong, at least Hogwarts and Hogsmeade would be safe, along with the people within. The way things were going, this could mean survival for wizardkind. After all, the ratio of Muggles to wizarding folk was…well, there was a certain imbalance, to say the least. The current magical population of the United Kingdom was at about twenty-five thousand. It was a proud number, especially when compared to other countries, but the Muggles were in a clear majority. How many in England alone? Around fifty million? Well. If all these Muggles were to suddenly rise up and decide to kill all wizards and witches, then they actually had a good chance of succeeding – especially if they had found a way to neutralise magic.

That, naturally, would not do.

So what to do? Hogwarts was about to be sealed off. The Ministry needed to be kept open, because someone needed to find a way to put a stop to all this madness. Still, all the research, the magic, the mysteries, and the people needed to be protected, somehow.

It was only a last resort, Ginny would tell people – would tell Harry, her parents, her brothers, her friends. It was a contingency plan. The odds of them actually having to need to use it were slim. They wouldn’t have to seal the Ministry off. They wouldn’t. In the end, they would win. Of course they would win. Of course.

Of course.

* * *

 

**2** **On that last, fateful morning, Ginny woke up feeling heavy,** tired, and somewhat uncomfortable in her own skin. It was hard to explain; somehow, it felt as if a storm were arriving. She’d never paid much attention to this kind of vague feeling of premonition until after Severus Snape had been forced to kill Professor Dumbledore. On that day, she’d woken up believing it would rain later, as well. There had been static electricity in the air, somehow. Later, when she’d had time to think back, she’d been able remember several such instances. The same had been true on the morning of the day Harry’s godfather had been killed, or on the day she’d first opened Tom Riddle’s diary.

To think that she’d had intimate conversations with a sliver of Voldemort’s soul. Horrible.

Anyway, over the years, she’d learned to trust these intuitions of hers; there was certainly something magical about them, yes, even though she was no prophet or oracle.

Therefore, when on the ninth of September, 2003, she woke up from a night of bad dreams with that feeling of heaviness in her limbs, that meant something bad was on the horizon. Truth be told, it had been long in the making, whatever it was. Still, she’d promised to herself that she would never again ignore this strange sensation of foreboding. She might not be able to stop an impending disaster, but what she _could_ do was steel herself against the proverbial tidal wave.

It was still dark when she woke up – an hour before the alarm would go off, actually. There was that strange feeling in the air – like lightning waiting to strike. She rolled over on her back, took a deep breath, and shook off the last remnants of sleep. Her hair was a knotted mess, her duvet tangled, her pyjamas clingy with sweat. No, it had not been a restful night at all. Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, she got up as carefully as possible, so as to not wake up Harry.

Poor Harry. He’d had it hard – all his life, really, but the fact that magic itself was being threatened just hit him particularly badly. His childhood as a Muggle had been quite awful. The wizarding world had saved him from all of that. As terrible as the trials he’d gone through had been, at least he’d been sure in his identity as a wizard. This was something he’d lacked before he’d found out about his true self: an identity. He’d gone through some bad times during his Hogwarts days, had suffered losses (they all had), but he’d always known that he belonged in the world of magic. Now, all of that certainty was gone.

He would tell her that she had also been through horrors, had also lost people she loved, was also living through these fearsome, uncertain times, and she would tell him that he was right.

It was a little different, though.

There was a certain fragility to Harry’s psyche that kind of hinged on his identity as a wizard in a world of magic. He would counter that at least he knew how to be a Muggle, but the idea of not being able to cast spells was so outlandish to most of his fellow wizards and witches, they couldn’t even imagine what that must be like. He could, though, and being confronted with the very real possibility of having what mattered most taken away from him – his loved ones and his magic – terrified him. In Harry’s case, fear didn’t paralyse him. Fear made him reckless.

Needless to say, this was something that Ginny both loved and disapproved of about him.

Life was full of such little, lovely contradictions.

For a few seconds, she just stood there, still swaying a little from sleep, and watched Harry sleep.

He looked drained and pale. His beautiful dark hair had gone somewhat brittle. He’d lost weight.

Neither of them was getting enough sleep.

She smiled wistfully, resisted the urge to wipe back some hair from his forehead, and lurched into the shower. This was going to be a nasty day. She could tell.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **They forced themselves to eat a meagre breakfast** even though neither of them was in any way hungry. The show had to go on, as Harry was wont to say. Yes, indeed. The show had to go on. Ginny, to be perfectly honest, didn’t really want to tell Harry about her vague premonition thing, but things being as they were, keeping silent even about something seemingly this silly might have fatal consequences.

They were sitting opposite each other in their little kitchen of their little London flat, not talking. He was cradling a cup of tea; she was sipping coffee – tasted kind of sour today, didn’t it? The sky outside was clear. There was a crisp, clean chill to the air. Still, Ginny couldn’t shake the heaviness in her bones, couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t make it go away.

Bracing herself (because saying it out loud would make it real somehow), she reached out, placed her left hand on his right wrist, and said, “Harry, I think today is the day.”

He was already in a gloomy mood, given that he’d got an owl about half an hour ago with the disturbing news that they’d lost contact with the entirety of Northern Ireland. How was that even possible? How could this be happening to them? He raised his head slowly, as if it were too heavy. “What day?”

She herself felt heavy, too – so heavy. “ _The_ day.”

That certainly caught his attention. He straightened up, tensed up. His eyes grew wide. “Why do you think that?”

“I can feel it,” she said, looked down into her coffee, shrugged, and made herself face him again. It was a strange mix, this feeling of both abashment and defiance. “Somehow. I don’t know, but every time something horrible happens, I get this feeling. It’s hard to explain.”

He nodded slowly, said, “Okay. Okay,” and took a sip from his probably already lukewarm tea. “So what do you think we should do?”

Not that she had actually expected him to not believe her, but his instant acceptance of her forebodings was a relief and a half. “We prepare for the worst, I reckon.”

“It’s been getting worse for years, now.” He pressed his lips together, shook his head, and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “Maybe it’s because I’m older now, but I got to tell you: I’m much more afraid now than I was during our fight against Voldemort.”

Now more than ever did she wish for a true time turner: one that allowed people to really travel back in time (famed, mythical invention though it might be). Maybe then they’d be able to nip this evil in the bud. But where had it even begun? Too little information was the greatest problem they had.

“So am I,” she said, leaned in, caressed the side of his face – he needed a shave – and couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. “We need to implement our contingency plan, Harry. Even if it doesn’t get bad enough for us to need to seal off the Ministry, we need to act like that’s our only choice.”

Again, he nodded, this time with a little more confidence. Now they had a plan. That made all the difference, no matter how dire the situation. “We’ll talk to the Minister. She’ll issue the general warning first, then we can give McGonagall the go-ahead, then…then the rest, if needed.”

“But then at least we’ll be able to save a few.”

“For a while. They won’t be able to get out.” He reached out and took her hand. “Neither will we, if we…if we go through with it all.”

“The difference will be, we won’t notice.”

“If we survive at all.” Before she could protest, he added, “Pointless thinking, I know. I know.” He clapped his hands together and pushed his chair back. “Let’s get going, then. The Minister won’t appreciate the delay.”

This time, she actually managed to smile. It was impossible not to love him, wasn’t it? Quite. “No, she won’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **They arrived at the Ministry about fifteen minutes later.** Their co-workers accepted the directives without argument and went to work right away. The current Minister for Magic, Ceridwen Travers, had given her okay at once, clearing the way for all the emergency measures. She’d okayed all of the contingency plans before, and even though it was clear that she would prefer to wait, she agreed to follow Harry and Ginny’s counsel.

A general warning was issued.

Hogwarts was notified.

Whoever was left was now prepared for the worst.

They’d sent Aurors out, investigators, researchers. Most of them did not return. From many parts of Britain and the world, no news were coming in anymore.

Two hours after their arrival at the Ministry, Harry skidded into the big office room – the bullpen – which housed the Research Committee, down in the Department of Mysteries. He was pale, except for two reddish blotches on his hollow cheeks.

Ginny’s heart picked up the pace at the sight of him. Acid sloshed in her stomach. She nearly dropped the parchment she’d been holding – the one with the correct incantation on it. The incantation that would drown the Ministry in amber. “What is it?”

There were at least a dozen people bustling to and fro in the bullpen. They were all busy. They were all trying to secure as much information as they could. They were also pointedly trying not to gawp at Harry, whose hurried arrival meant nothing good.

Harry said, “I was talking to one of the Aurors in Brighton through the fireplace in my office, when he suddenly just vanished.” His dark hair was dishevelled. Sweat bloomed on his forehead and nose. His green eyes had a feverish shimmer to them. “Same thing happened with all the others.”

“All of them?”

“Every single one.”

Her stomach panged. “How many did you even _reach_?”

He only shook his head.

All right. Okay. The key was not to panic. Panic only ever helped their enemies.

Ginny collected herself, straightened her posture, and said, “Could you find out whether the emergency portkeys into Hogsmeade worked?”

“Only in a few cases. The rest are out of reach now. I have no idea what’s going on anywhere, anymore – none of us do.”

“What does that mean?” someone in the back whispered.

Harry shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know. Could mean anything.”

This was bad.

It might be one of those watershed moments that changed the entire course of the future. Perhaps it was even their extinction event.

Not if Ginny would help it, though. She took a deep breath. With her right hand, she pulled her wand from her robes. With her left, she clutched the parchment with the incantation on it for dear life. “Has the Minister been informed?”

“Yes. She’s started evacuating the building.”

That was when everyone dropped what they were doing. They just…trailed off somehow, stood there, and stared in gobsmacked silence.

An icy shiver slithered down Ginny’s spine. Her innards were cramping badly. She was shaking. Her legs felt rubbery. She saw stars. Her mouth was cottony. Still, she gathered all the strength she had, all her courage, and managed to announce, loud and clear, “Everyone, it’s time for you to go while you still can – just go. _Now_.”

They’d rehearsed this. Back then, it had been sort of comical – almost like a game. There was nothing funny about any of it anymore. Everyone just grabbed the bags they’d packed weeks ago, barely looked at their boss (Ginny’s actual superiors had vanished without a trace about a fortnight past), and trotted toward the lifts that would take them to the main entrance hall and the fireplaces. Their time window was narrow, now. They needed to hurry in order to still make it into Hogsmeade. In about ten minutes, both the village and Hogwarts would be sealed off.

Everyone left…except for Harry.

She felt the tell-tale tickle in her nose, felt her throat constricting, felt her breath hitching. Her vision blurred a little, but she breathed in deeply, focussed, and remained in control. “Harry, you need to leave.”

“No.”

“Harry…”

“ _No_. I won’t leave. The Minister’s staying, too, but even if she wasn’t: I won’t leave you ever again.” He cupped her face and gently placed a kiss on her lips. “I love you, Ginny. We stay together, no matter what.”

“No matter what.” She exhaled sharply, uttering a nervous little chuckle. “You’re mad, you are, Potter. Mad.”

“And stupid. I know.”

She meant to say something encouraging, something soothing, but nothing would come to her. It wasn’t needed, anyway. There was only one thing she needed to tell him, even if he already knew it. “Harry, I-”

That was when, quick as lightning, a silvery shape dropped through the ceiling into the now quiet, empty room. It was a rabbit.

Both Ginny and Harry stared at the Patronus, wide-eyed, unwittingly drawn back to the fateful day when her brother Bill had got married.

Back then, they hadn’t known that things could turn worse – so much worse.

“ _The defences are gone. This is our last message. Seal off the Ministry. They will kill you all_ ,” the Patronus said, using the emotionless voice of Harry’s fellow Auror Aillen Fawley. “ _Goodbye_. _Goodbye and good luck._ ”

“No more time,” Harry said, facing her as the Patronus dissolved. “Do it. Now.”

She closed her eyes, took another deep breath, said, “I love you, Harry,” and raised the parchment to her face. She pointed her wand at it and spoke the incantation.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, as amber-coloured smoke started filling up the room.

Ginny still managed to take his hand even as moving became harder and harder in the solidifying mass.

Their fingers intertwined. Both of them closed their eyes.

Then, there was only darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in 2008, Nox prepares for his big day, Pansy learns something about the powers of wartime propaganda, and Daphne sees the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Both this chapter and the last paraphrase the Queen song 'The Show Must Go On'. I forgot to add the note last time around - sorry.

** 2008 **

 

**1** **At least this time,** young Joshua went back to his Palace of Westminster office without complaints. Finally, he understood that everyone needed to play their part. Okay, okay, Josh didn’t know what part exactly he was playing in this whole drama, but his time to shine would come. That was a mathematical certainty. Josh was a good guy, a good soldier, a good friend, but he was also a wild card and needed to be kept on a short leash. Everyone had their talents and everyone had their failings. That was just the way people worked – hell, the whole world.

Nox himself knew his extreme resentment of the wizarding world was his greatest flaw; this was tinged with an unfortunate dash of wishing for their approval. It was the kind of emotion that wasn’t useful in the slightest, unlike loyalty, love, and friendship. Those were amazing tools, no matter what good old Tom Riddle might have believed. Resentment and inferiority complexes, though? No, not really useful at all – hindrances, to be sure. Blinding. Paralysing. Dangerous.

Today, he would let none of that get in his way. He’d planned for so long to get where he was right now. The last thing he wanted was to spoil it for himself like a right idiot. But had he thought of everything? Had he been mindful of all the variables? Was he the only one who was pulling all of the strings? It at least looked like that. He knew that it was too late to back off now, that he needed to go through with the plan even if he wasn’t completely sure that he had every little aspect of it under control. All the chess pieces were in place. Young Miss Granger (not even that young anymore, right? Was this how it felt like to get old? Dear God, was he developing a midlife crisis? Yikes) and Narcissa’s cherished offspring were almost inside the N.A.S.C., Mary’s brother Percy as their hostage.

Boy oh boy, here was to hoping that Josh didn’t find this out too soon.

The way Nox saw it, Granger and Draco had only two options where Percy Shelley was concerned: they could let him go or they could kill him. Letting him go would be unwise. Neither of them was stupid, so they probably knew that they were being set up, but they still couldn’t risk it. They needed to get to the suppressor as quickly as possible, so there was no wasting time securing him or locking him up somewhere. No, neither of them was a murderer, but in a pinch, both would choose themselves and each other over an enemy – even if that enemy was unarmed. Strange times.

Percy Shelley was an okay mechanic, but not much of a loss, generally speaking. Josh’s girlfriend, Percy’s sister, was a better professional, but what made her so valuable was her connection to Josh. He loved her. Therefore, she needed to be kept safe. Her safety meant Josh’s happiness; Josh was the real treasure, here. He needed to be kept happy. Percy’s death would vex him because it would hurt Mary, but Mary herself would still be there, which was good enough. If there had to be collateral damage, then it should be contained to people who were expendable. Of course, every human life was precious – yes, yes, yes. But still. As leader of the new world, Nox had millions of lives in his hands. Some just had to be sacrificed. Besides, the loss would motivate Josh even further. Win-win, really.

Moot ruminations about the sanctity of life aside, he knew that it was time to get Narcissa in here. Her husband was now safely locked away again. Allowing them to see each other, to speak in private constituted a risk, but a calculable one. The obvious benefits outweighed the risk of Mister and Misses Malfoy conspiring to kill their gaoler. By allowing them to see each other again, to be close, he had reminded them of how very much they loved each other (oh, but it hurt, didn’t it? Knowing this), how they wouldn’t be able to stand to lose each other.

Since Nox needed Narcissa to help him with Draco at the Ministry, and he needed Narcissa to behave, he had to factor in the human element. Having the foresight to bring the Malfoys in was paying off now. Malfoy Junior was now on his way into the Ministry of Magic with the brilliant Miss Granger in tow. If Nox wanted to get inside Hogwarts, he needed Draco and Granger’s help. Before the whole puzzle had come beautifully together like this, he’d banked on the inherent loyalty of the members of an endangered in-group – wizarding people – toward each other. That had, so far, served him well in his dealings with them: threaten one, ensure the loyalty of the others. Beautiful. This, though? It was _perfect_. Granger wouldn’t allow Potter and the Weasley girl to come to harm, whilst the Malfoys could all be used as leverage against each other.

Honestly, he couldn’t have ordered a set-up this textbook.

Here they were, ready to roll.

Today was the day.

Finally.

Narcissa was brought into the Crimson Drawing Room yet again. She looked…well, she was always magnificent, nigh-on perfect, but he’d expected her to sport that nauseated glare of hers she loved so much. That was gone. She stood straight, head high, and her expression was serene. All of this because she’d been allowed to talk to Lucius?

That somehow made him feel like setting fire to some of the venerable, precious paintings. He felt like destroying something beautiful.

Mindful (and a prisoner) of his upbringing, he screwed a politician’s smile on his face and bowed his head. “Misses Malfoy. Thank you for being here on this lovely afternoon.”

She arched her eyebrows and crossed her arms. “Are we back to showing me a modicum of the respect that I deserve? I’d be pleasantly surprised if I didn’t know it to be pure mockery.”

It felt a little bit like being spat on, to be honest. He actually recoiled a little – couldn’t help it. “I would _never_.”

“Wouldn’t you? There are not many things I would put past you.”

“I’m saddened to hear that.” He looked down at his shoes – not trainers for once – tugged down on his jacket, discreetly cleared his throat, and faced her again. His cheeks felt a little warm. “You know, someone like me would always be invisible to someone like you under normal circumstances. It’s my luck, then, that the circumstances are no longer normal” – He briefly spread his arms – “and here you are, seeing me. You may not like what you see, but at least you can no longer ignore me.”

Her clear eyes narrowed. She scrutinised him as one would study a particularly odd bug. “Who _are_ you?”

Again, he smiled a bit. It came about a little easier this time. “That’s the problem with you people, isn’t it? How criminally short-sighted you are. You didn’t see Harry Potter and his friends coming, and you never even noticed me.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyway, on with the show, as the great sage and wise-man Freddie once said, once upon about seventeen years ago. You know what you have to do and you know what will happen if you don’t.” Almost pleadingly, he added, “Please don’t put me in an awkward situation, Narcissa. I don’t care a lick about your husband, but the last thing I want is to hurt _you_.”

She just watched him in silence for a few seconds, before shaking her head slowly. “I find myself incapable of understanding what it is you want from me.”

“Adds to the mystery, doesn’t it? And what would life be without mysteries? But please, come along. I’d love to palaver with you all day, but there’s some need to get a move on, so to speak. We’ve got much to do and little time.” He set into motion, knowing she would follow.

After all, she had no other choice.

In the end, _he_ would make sure that _they_ all would dance to his tune – not the other way around. Never again.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **One of the nurses popped by** shortly after Pansy and Weasley the Younger had their epic, heart-wrenching one-on-one – _thankfully_. Pansy for one couldn’t engage in too much comradely chumming about with anyone, let alone someone she didn’t even like; she was rather convinced that the feeling was mutual. The nurse – a young wizard Pansy had never before seen in her life – checked her over, found her healing well, and then went to fetch the headmistress. A few minutes later, Minerva McGonagall came striding into the Hospital Wing, looking so alive and energetic, Pansy felt like bawling like an idiot all over again.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, Professor,” Pansy said, meaning it. How things had changed. How things had changed, indeed.

Weasley, who in the interim had absconded to the adjacent bed, said, “Feels almost like old times, doesn’t it?”

McGonagall stopped in front of both beds. Her usual, stern expression made way for something that wasn’t quite a smile, but friendliness nonetheless. “Likewise, Miss Parkinson. I’m told you’re recovering well.”

Pansy nodded. Sharp pain needled through her skull, but she managed not to flinch. She’d almost died, after all – only hadn’t courtesy of a friend. Speaking of which… “I am, Professor. Thank you. But could you please tell me where Callidora Selwyn is? She’s the one who saved me.”

Something like a shadow crossed McGonagall’s face. “Ah, yes,” she said, clasped her hands, and broke off eye-contact for a couple of seconds. “Miss Selwyn is just fine. She’s in the library with your old classmate, Theodore Nott.”

Unwittingly (and wasn’t this a whole other level of annoying), Pansy exchanged a little look with Weasley. It didn’t take a Legilimens to catch onto McGonagall’s dislike of Callidora, so it was pointless to even mention it. Whatever Theo was up to, though? That was curious – even more so if a sharp-minded Ravenclaw like Callidora was taking an interest in his work. Hm.

Perking up a bit (and ignoring the discomfort that this caused), Pansy said, “Did anyone else from the Wales camp make it here? Apart from myself, Callidora, and the Weasleys, of course.”

McGonagall’s expression turned pained. “I’m sorry, but no.”

There was a pang in Pansy’s stomach. She thought about fidgeting with her hair, but her hands were shaking – cold and clammy, too. Damn it. It took her a moment to make sure that she wouldn’t lose her grip on herself again. Bawling like a baby in front of Weasley had been bad enough. There was no need to repeat the sorry exercise in front of Head Gryffindor.

Wow. How mature.

Okay, the silly thought nearly made her snicker like an adolescent. It certainly curbed the urge to weep, even though she wasn’t sure at all whether that would be making special guest appearances in the near or far future.

Grief was a weird thing.

Pulling herself together as best as possible, she said, “I hear my friend Theo is working on a method to save the world?”

It wasn’t surprising, albeit a little disappointing, that McGonagall raised both hands in a placatory gesture. “One thing after the other, Miss Parkinson. You’ll be brought up to speed in no time at all. First, however, I would like you to answer some of _my_ questions…if you feel strong enough for that, of course.”

What Pansy really wanted was to get out of bed and explore the castle again, to watch children trying to fly on a broom for the first time, to catch up with Callidora and Theo, to find people she’d believed dead…but yeah, she reined herself in. Sure. Of course. One had to be mindful of one’s manners, as her parents had always told her (oh dear, oh no, no thinking about them, no way, no how, _no_ ). After all, there was a time and a place for being a recalcitrant little pest, and this was decidedly neither. “Of course.”

McGonagall nodded. “Good, good. Bill Weasley told me that Hermione Granger has set out to London in order free his sister and Harry Potter from the Ministry?”

Okay. Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. Pansy only just kept her hands from balling into fists. She couldn’t help the muscles in her face from tightening, though. “She would never even have made it out of _Wales_ without my friend Draco’s help. He’s gone to London with her because she has zero chance of success _without_ him.”

“Good job missing the point, Parkinson,” Weasley the Younger opined, even though nobody had asked him for his wretched, unqualified opinion.

Ugh.

It was the first time since she’d woken up that Pansy wondered what had happened to her wand.

For about three seconds, McGonagall’s expression turned irritated. Then, she hid away whatever negative emotions Pansy’s emotions had effected in her; she nodded again. “Yes, I know, Miss Parkinson. I’m told he, his sister-in-law, and the Scamanders have fended well, given the circumstances.”

“They have,” Pansy returned tersely. “Astoria died, though. She got killed by _Muggles_.”

Again, that shadow of disapproval crossed the headmistress’s face. “That’s very unfortunate, and I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Thanks,” Pansy said, still tense.

“Did Mister Malfoy give you any insights on how many witches and wizards were killed before his eyes, and how many were taken?” It was a good thing that McGonagall didn’t try to engage in any grief counselling. Wasn’t her style, anyway, but still: one had to be grateful for the little things.

Sinking back into her propped-up pillows again, Pansy frowned. Her stomach was growling. Hunger, of course, but that was nothing new. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She raised one heavy hand to scratch her forehead. How good it felt to lie in a comfortable bed, knowing that she could recover from her (magically healed) injuries in peace and quiet. This wasn’t just a safe place. This was home…

…and Draco was still out there, in danger, maybe even already dead.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to quit it with the sentimentality already. “No. He, Astoria, and Daphne barely escaped his home back in the day. I have no idea what happened to his parents; neither does he.”

“All right. But what about the walls around Hogsmeade and the school grounds? Do the remaining witches and wizards that you had contact with know that only they can Apparate inside, no Muggles in tow?”

Pansy shook her head. “No. We all thought this was a death trap.”

McGonagall arched her thin eyebrows. “Really? Before we put the wards in place, the Ministry issued a general warning. That’s why so many were able to save themselves.”

A little over a thousand out of originally twenty-five thousand was not ‘many’, but since Pansy had believed no more than a few dozen in total to still be alive, she’d take what she could. “It didn’t reach everyone. My group had no idea, and neither had Draco’s. We heard that trying to get in here meant death.”

“This might have been deliberate misinformation from the part of whoever is responsible for this whole preposterousness.”

“You’re not completely wrong, though,” Weasley piped up again, addressing Pansy. “About the death trap thing? We’re kind of stuck here.”

“Thank you for that blunt assessment, Mister Weasley,” McGonagall said, looking as if she were working hard to suppress a sigh. She locked eyes with Pansy again. “I’m afraid he’s correct. We are, for the nonce, trapped in here. Not to worry, though: we have been working on a viable solution for several years, now.”

Pansy stared at her, wide-eyed. “You’re not gonna risk letting the walls down, are you?” Whatever those even were. Magical ones, clearly. The details would have to be found out later. Again, this was neither the time, nor the place.

Waving off, McGonagall said, “No, no. Of course not. But we can’t just sit here and do nothing, can we? There are still people outside our safe little bubble that need our help.” This time, she did manage the subtlest hint of a smile. “And this time, we are all on the same side.”

“Whatever could stop us?” Weasley said, sounding rather sceptical.

That couldn’t stop Pansy from beaming, though. “What, indeed?”

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **After snapping out of her shock,** Daphne quickly stuffed the photograph and the letter into the rucksack she’d pilfered. It wasn’t as if any of this answered who the hell Nox was, or what exactly he was really after, but it answered some of the questions. Maybe, if given some time to think about it quietly, she and her friends would come to the right conclusions – probably, even. She needed to get out of this sad mausoleum of a house, though, out of London, out of danger. Running out, however, wasn’t an option. Where would she go? No, the only way out of here that was in any feasible was by Apparating…even if it was into a trap.

But maybe, just _maybe_ they’d be able to overpower their enemies if they got a chance to use magic against them.

In the meantime, she decided to explore a little bit more, since the nasty, burning itch of the magic suppressor was still there. In all honesty, she didn’t think that she’d find any more clues as obvious as the census and the contents of that envelope. Whether the census had been left in that desk drawer downstairs on purpose was unclear, but the envelope? That had lain inside the dusty teenager’s bedroom for many years, wilfully forgotten. So the wizard-hating Muggle Joshua Lucesco had had a witch as a mother. This mother had left him a letter explaining her nature to him, meaning that he hadn’t known about magic up to that point. Given the evidence present, it was fairly obvious that mummy dearest had been blasted into oblivion by Death Eaters about a decade ago. The seal on the envelope had been unbroken, the contents of the envelope untouched until Daphne came along. That could only mean one thing: Lucesco hadn’t wanted to find out about his late mother’s magical secret.

This in turn meant that he couldn’t be the source of all the inside information that had brought the wizarding world to its knees.

Still, this bleeding moron’s involvement in the Malleus Deorum movement could _not_ be a coincidence.

The answer to this little riddle was straight-forward: Nox, whoever he might be in reality, had recruited Lucesco knowing about his history. Therefore, Nox had to be the person with all the information – more than any of the wizards and witches who were still around had, to add insult to injury. Had he got this information from the magic folk he’d captured? No. No, that made no sense. He had to have known all of this before. That meant that he was the insider, of course – had been all along. But how could that be? He was a Muggle!

Was he, though?

Back in Bexhill, the question had been both posed and discarded as being irrelevant to the current mess.

Now, though, Daphne was convinced that this was very much relevant.

Getting a wizard or witch to charm an object powered to suppress magic could not be too difficult. Knowing everything needed in order to catch a wizard or witch, in the first place, though? That wasn’t something a hapless Muggle would be capable of. This whole thing had, according to Mary Shelley, been orchestrated over many years. The little cretin had to have started _somewhere_ , though. Could be that he was just a Muggle who got exposed to magic accidentally, like Joshua Lucesco, but that seemed unlikely. Where the hell would he get an accurate census from?

Yes, yes, it was possible that he’d somehow got the information he needed even as a Muggle, but it was highly unlikely. Much likelier was the possibility that this person had close ties to the wizarding world – had had for a long, long time.

This census.

The answer lay within, didn’t it?

Daphne didn’t quite dare take the book out and leaf through it, knowing that any minute now, the big magic suppressor at the N.A.S.C. could be switched off. She went back to dear little Josh’s room and sat on the dusty chair by the dusty desk, her wand in hand.

So much knowledge in the census. What was the likeliest way that Nox had come by all that information – that and everything else he’d needed to mess up the world like this? Well, the most obvious answer was that he was probably a wizard.

He _couldn’t_ be, though. Nobody who knew how to do magic would cripple themselves like this, put themselves in _danger_ like this. Besides, the genocidal tendencies this piece of rubbish displayed just reeked of hatred, of bigotry…

…of resentment.

That was it. That was _it!_

The answer was so obvious, she could have burst out laughing. To someone with an outside perspective, the solution would probably have come much sooner. Whelp, better late than never. It was so _clear_ to her now.

Nox was a person who knew the wizarding world inside out, who utilised some of its traditions (why else use parchment and quills instead of their weird technology?), but who nurtured deep resentment toward magic users. This was the last piece of the puzzle, and here was the answer, clear as day.

He was a squib.

Had to be.

Daphne closed her eyes and shook her head, snickering. Now, all she needed was to find her way back to the others and tell them what she’d discovered.

That was when it happened: the itch just vanished – didn’t fade, didn’t do anything. It was just _gone_.

She gasped, reeled, saw stars, got herself together – all inside of five seconds or less. This was it. Time to shine. She tightened her grip around her wand, rose to her feet, and Apparated into the Ministry of Magic.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco get inside the Ministry of Magic, whilst Pansy finds out there may just be a way to save the world, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I reference the LotR: Return of the King movie in here.

 

**1** **Pansy got out of bed a couple of hours later,** feeling not completely recovered, but close enough for government work, in any case. Earlier, she’d asked McGonagall if she was allowed to roam the grounds, should she feel like it.

McGonagall had had nothing to object.

Out of respect for their sort of newfound camaraderie, Pansy had asked Weasley whether he wanted to come with, but thankfully, he’d informed her that he wasn’t feeling quite strong enough for a leisurely stroll about. Okay, then. Next time, maybe.

Yeah.

Maybe not.

She took her time, walked slowly, savoured every single step, every sight, every sound, every smell. The corridors were still high, domed, cool, and smelled of stone. Sunshine still shone in through the coloured glass of the narrow windows in slanted beams of all Hogwarts colours.

There were people, too.

People.

Children, hurrying past, casting her cursory glances, wearing uniform robes.

Adults in traditional wizard clothes.

Pansy walked slowly past two pairs of people she didn’t know.

They nodded at her as if it were nothing.

_They nodded at her as if it were nothing._

She nodded back, holding her breath, seeing stars.

This was a bloody miracle, this was.

Her strength-levels weren’t so great, so she decided to head toward the library. After all, McGonagall had told her that Callidora was there, as well as Theo. It would be such a delight to speak to an old House mate again – a friend. Hell, lurching through the corridors, watching people hurry to and fro, all busy and carefree, made her feel like bawling all over again, but she managed to keep a lid on it this time. Crying one’s heart out once was good, was cathartic, sure, but there was no need to exaggerate. Too much of anything just couldn’t be healthy.

Besides, Pansy had to admit that she’d feel like an idiot, roaming the halls weeping like a right damsel in distress. No, that would not do one single bit.

She slowly dragged her feet over to the library, a place she hadn’t exactly shunned as a student, but hadn’t loved, either. Nope, Pansy had never been a Hermione Granger (and here was to hoping that good old Granger was still alive and being annoying), even though she’d been a passable student.

Well, everyone had their skills, and everyone sucked at something – nature and all. 

It was a beautiful thing that absolutely nothing in this library had changed. The place looked the same, smelled the same, felt the same. For countless generations, students and teachers had been coming in here to read, research, do homework, to just find a quiet spot where they could smell the parchment and listen to the silence.

By one of the tables, under a high and curved window, beneath a slanted shaft of sunlight populated by merrily dancing dust motes, sat Callidora Selwyn and Theodore Nott, engaged in a lively discussion. Between them, on the dark wood of the old table, lay a bunch of open books and parchments that were scribbled over with notes, formulas, and strange symbols.

“Hi there,” Pansy said, approaching them with some degree of caution. Maybe they didn’t want to be interrupted. Maybe she’d just walked in at a crucial moment of epiphany or whatever.

Both looked up at her.

Callidora smiled and subtly nodded her head.

Theo…well, Theo’s light-brown eyes widened, his jaw dropped in a rather comical way, and then, almost in a flash, he jumped up from his chair – which went clattering down on the stone floor – and hurried to take Pansy into a bear hug. That was quite a feat, given that he was a relatively short guy who weighed next to nothing.

In fact, Pansy had once joked that he could give someone a paper cut by virtue of just hugging them.

Now, here he was, hugging but not cutting (even though he was all angles, still scrawny, still sporting with that ragged haircut), and…

…okay, now he was crying.

Crying?

Yep, crying.

Something she’d just gone through, as well, having no-one but Weasley the Younger for company. Hesitantly, she put her arms around Theo, her friend, and patted his back. “Glad you’re alive, too.”

In response, he squeezed her even more tightly for a few seconds, before letting go with a palpable deal of reluctance. He stepped out of the embrace, mopped at his eyes with his fists, and brushed some of his longish dirty-blond hair from his face, behind his ears. His pale face was blotchy, his eyes bloodshot. He sniffled, then cracked a broad, toothy, gorgeous smile that shaved years of care off of him. It was a beautiful sight and no mistake. “You have no idea how much I’ve hoped to see any of you again – you, Draco, Daphne, Astoria…all of you. I missed you all _so_ much!”

“Likewise,” she said, and playfully punched his bony shoulder.

Briefly, he looked down at his feet, hands at his waist, and cleared his throat. “Callidora told me about…about everything. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Pansy said, chewed on the inside of her cheek, and swallowed – hard. “Thanks, Theo.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay – you and Draco.”

“So am I,” she said, took a steadying breath, and managed to actually smile a bit. “So, McGonagall tells me you’ve been working on saving the world?”

“Have a seat, my love,” Callidora said, motioning at one of the empty chairs. “We have been having a rather interesting conversation. Would you, perchance, like to be part of a dastardly scheme that by far tops McGonagall’s ridiculous idea of preserving what little is left of our world?”

One look at both Callidora and Theo told Pansy that they actually believed they were onto something, here.

That…was that…could it be? Was this _hope_?

Pansy sat down, her heart picking up the pace. “I would love to.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **Holding hands, Hermione and Draco Apparated into the Ministry of Magic.** Draco, clearly knowing where he was, said, “ _Lumos_.” Immediately, a sphere of white light appeared, casting an almost ghostly shine on the room in which they now found themselves.

It was…an office? A nice one, too, from the looks of it: big, dark-walled, shiny, expensively furnished, and very clean. The one bookcase that stood against a wall was filled with what looked like a collection worth a fortune.

“What is this place?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide to help them adjust to the relative gloom. It was only a whisper, yes, but it carried anyway.

“My father’s office. It’s far enough away from where Potter and the Weasley girl probably were –the situation room – when they sealed themselves off. Stood to reason to assume this room would be clear.”

She meant to chastise him for risking their lives on a whim, for not possibly knowing whether the place would be ambered, but stopped herself just in time. His choice had been logical and brave, and she knew it. So instead of complaining about a non-issue, she said, “I didn’t know your father even had a job.”

Surprisingly, that made him chuckle. “Yeah, me, neither.”

That was when she realised that they were still holding hands.

Oh, dear.

Hoping it wasn’t too awkward, she pulled her hand away and discreetly cleared her throat. “You’ve been in here more times than I have. I may not like it, but I must ask you to take the lead.”

He turned to her. The corners of his mouth were twitching a little, and the sphere of light put a spark in his eyes. The black hair sticking out from under the cheap hat still looked exceedingly odd, though – off, too. “Well, if you must.”

Despite her annoyance, she couldn’t help but smile a bit. “At least we’ve got magic, now.”

“I think the suppressors might not ever have worked in here. Otherwise, this place would be crawling with those Muggle shitheads.”

“ _I_ think you might be right about the suppressors, since Nox clearly needs us to get something for him-”

“Or someone.”

“Or someone,” she acknowledged, rubbing her forehead, trying to think clearly. The concussus weighed heavily on her back. “But he set us a trap, remember? He’ll let us fetch whatever requires fetching, and then, he’ll strike.”

“Yes. Well. We’ll just have to yell surprise and run really quickly…or, alternatively, wait until the right moment during his speech of victory, when he’s about to explain his plan of world domination to us. Then, _we’ll_ strike. He’ll never see it coming.” It wasn’t too hard to understand that he used sarcasm to alleviate fear, but still, it was a little bit funny.

God help her, she actually thought it was a little but funny. She said, “You really have been reading too many bad paperbacks, Draco.” Didn’t even feel all that strange anymore, did it? Calling him by his first name.

“Tell me about it. Now, since I must take the lead, let me not be gallant about this,” he said, and started heading toward the only door.

“Gallant? I’m surprised you even know how to spell the word.” She followed him.

“Makes two of us.” He took a deep breath. “Do your reputation justice and stay sharp…Hermione.”

She couldn’t help but feel touched, somehow. It was one of those weird we’re-all-about-to-die-camaraderie moments, yes, but it was nice. It _felt_ nice. Death was a probability, yes, and if she were to die, it would be lovely to do so side by side with someone she could actually call not just an ally, but a friend.

Hermione Granger, Muggle-born witch, calling a snooty Malfoy ‘friend’.

What times.

“I will,” she said, and followed him into the darkness beyond the door.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Daphne had only been to the Ministry once that she could remember,** and that was precisely where she ended up materialising: right next to the fountain in the Ministry’s main entrance hall. It was a small miracle, actually, that she could Apparate inside the Ministry at all, but apparently, the government had removed the charms keeping the building safe from attacks via Apparating – everything to save as many as possible during those last, frantic moments before the fall.

Choosing this spot had meant taking a huge chance, since she’d had no idea where she’d be ending up, but these days, taking chances that might end in death was the only thing anyone had left. It paid off, this boldness, in ways that it didn’t for most of them these days.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she said, blinking in the sudden brilliance cast by her wand.

Once her pupils adjusted, she really decided to be grateful for a not-so-little-after-all bit of luck: she had re-materialised not two feet in front of a massive, amber-coloured wall. Her heart was hammering in her chest. There was a sour taste in her mouth. With something akin to awe, she reached out to touch the material, let her hand hover just shy of contact, and then pressed her palm against it. It was cold and hard as stone, its uneven surface reflecting the light from her wand in hundreds of little sparkles. The amber was somewhat transparent, too, it seemed.

“ _Lumos maxima_.” A large sphere of white light erupted from her wand and rose halfway to the domed ceiling. Her eyes adjusted after another moment.

That was when she saw it. Inside the solid mass, there were people: people in the middle of running, people falling down, people on their knees. Some had their eyes open. Others were covering their faces with their hands. They’d been trying to escape, to find a safe place before there was nowhere left to run. They couldn’t have known that there were no more safe places left, and that they were now the lucky ones.

A shiver slithered down her spine. It was time to move on.

The cavernous entrance hall was halfway filled with the amber – and within that at least a dozen witches and wizards – whilst the rest of the place was empty and lifeless. The silence filling the place was heavy, almost inky, making it hard to breathe.

Then again, maybe this was just Daphne’s mind playing tricks on her.

It was cold, but she was still sweating. Her hands shook. She felt a little ill.

Draco and Hermione had to be here. They clearly had succeeded at disabling the main magic suppressor, after which they would have immediately Apparated here…

…unless the enemy had got to them first, had switched the bloody thing off to lure others here, and…

No. Daphne stopped herself right there. First of all, that made no sense. It was obvious that Nox needed Hermione to use her unique expertise to free something or someone out of the amber. Five years had gone by since the Ministry had been sealed off. In all that time, Nox hadn’t managed to break the amber. He needed Hermione. Therefore, she and Draco must still be alive.

Second of all, speculation led to panic, and panic was the least useful emotion in this kind of situation – maybe in every situation.

What to do? About half of the entrance area was not ambered, but it looked as if all the parts that led to doors, stairways, and lifts were. There had to be a way. There had to be.

The sound of her steps echoed loudly in the otherwise absolute silence of the hall. The domed ceiling amplified the sound, which bounced off the walls and the amber. All of this was making Daphne’s skin crawl. It felt as if she were being watched from the darkness beyond the light she’d cast. That was probably ridiculous, and even if not: nobody was going to interfere until the amber had been dissolved.

Now, where would Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley be? Probably in the biggest office, where everything had been coordinated during that last effort to keep control over the situation.

Draco and Hermione would be heading there from his father’s office – from up top to the bowels of the building.

This amber stuff had been a last measure to preserve not just magic, but also the secrets of the Ministry. Daphne couldn’t believe that someone as intelligent and level-headed as Ginny Weasley wouldn’t insert a loophole into her spell that would allow any potential allies to find a way to release the ones who were trapped. That meant that there needed to be a way to get to the centre of the-

No, not necessarily.

Here she was again, trying desperately to reason with herself in order to keep herself calm. How annoying. What she needed to do now was to keep her marbles, was to think logically and make the best of-

Behind her was the tell-tale snap and crackle of someone Apparating into the place. She whirled around, wand in hand, and saw…

…oh no.

Oh no.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **There really wasn’t a good way out of this mess,** even though Hermione refused to believe that there might be no way out at all. They could use the concussus at the first sight of amber and not bother finding a way to where Harry and Ginny must be, first. If they did that, however, they’d leave everyone just freed vulnerable to enemy attacks. It was obvious that Nox wanted them to dissolve the amber for some reason; it was also reasonable to assume that the people frozen – Ginny and Harry in particular – were the actual target of this whole enterprise. So being in a completely different part of the building whilst evaporating the amber would be a bad choice. But how to get to them, then?

_Finite Incantatem_ hadn’t worked. _Reducto_ hadn’t worked. _Bombarda Maxima_ hadn’t worked.

Not that Hermione had believed that any old spell would work – hence the heavy machinery in her rucksack – but by goodness, did it feel good to be in here again, performing magic! Okay, this was probably just a survival-fuelled adrenaline rush in the face of probable doom, but who cared? Right now, she was where she hadn’t really believed she’d ever manage to get again, feeling magic course through her veins, and she was _doing_ something. No more hiding in a desolate camp, waiting for extinction. No, the dog was biting back, and victory or defeat, that alone was worth dying for…

…not that she intended to die, of course.

Of course.

“We can squeeze past that bit and take the stairs to the right,” Draco cut in, as he squinted in the pale light cast by both their wands. The amber was like a frozen, roiling cloud before them, blocking nearly the entire dark corridor. “The stairwell is shielded from all sorts of spells – I mean, was. It might be that charms and wards stopped functioning when the state of emergency was declared, but I believe it’s reasonable to assume that there won’t be any amber in there.” He snorted a dry chuckle. “Maybe they wanted to give people at least a small chance to evacuate.”

“It’s worth a try,” she said, and started following him again. The air was both cold and stale, but she figured her slight breathing difficulties were psychosomatic in nature. No-one had been in here to use up the air in five years.

Five years.

Dear God.

The people frozen in the amber were unaware of all the things that had happened ever since then – the raids, the deaths, the disappearances, the fear turning slowly into hopelessness, the camp in Wales…

…Ron’s illness.

Was he even still alive? Were any of them?

She better just worry about her own survival, now.

“You really know your way around here,” she said, after stifling a cough.

“I’m surprised you don’t. I expected you to be running this place a couple of years after graduating Hogwarts”

“I needed to do some studying, first…then, I took a sabbatical. Then, Nox happened.”

“Indeed. At least you were doing something productive. I was just sort of milling about, happy that my family survived Voldemort.” After a little pause, he added, “I planned on doing something eventually, but I had money to spare and _so much time_.” That last bit he said in such a caustic tone of voice, it was hard not to flinch at it. “So what did you study?”

“Care of magical creatures.” It really was cold in here, wasn’t it? It was cold and smelled like old socks, somehow.

“Do House Elves classify as magical creatures? I remember you caring a lot…you know, back at school.”

“I remember you not caring at all,” she shot back, immediately regretting it. Not that she wasn’t right, but this was the worst moment for political debates. “Ignore me, I-”

“Impossible. I’ve tried.”

She suppressed the urge to kick him. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, but you don’t have to be obnoxious on purpose.”

“No, you’re right. And _I’m_ the one who brought it up, not you.”

“It doesn’t matter, Draco, really, you-” That was when she saw it: people. People caught in the amber, mid-run. She stopped dead in her tracks. “You were right. They were heading toward the stairs.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a disdainful sneer contorting his face.

“How mundane, isn’t it?” he said lowly, and reached out to touch the surface of the amber, not ten inches from where a middle-aged witch was stretching out her hand, as well, from the inside. “How banal – all of this. Repulsive.”

She furtively stole a glance at him and felt a bit like spinning around and running away.

He looked like he was seconds away from crying.

That wasn’t a bad thing, of course, or in any way shameful, but how the hell was _she_ supposed to deal with it? She’d never been good at giving pep talks, at being verbally supportive. Something was needed here, though. Something that was comforting but not patronising. There was a knot in her throat. The air felt thin, didn’t it? “Did you, uh…know this lady?”

“M-hm. That’s Arabella Widmark. She worked for the Minister. Did it for ages, too, for several of them. Sometimes, when I was only a child and waiting here for my father, she’d talk to me, give me something to eat…she’d just be nice to me, you know – because I was little and bored and she was a good person. Just a stupid cliché, isn’t it?” He blinked. When a tear spilled down his cheek, he sniffled, pulled back his hand from the amber’s surface, and angrily mopped at his face. “Doesn’t matter.”

“No, it’s not a stupid cliché…and it does matter.” She wanted to tell him that these people were all still alive, just waiting to be freed, but didn’t.

None of that took away the horror, loss, and pain of the past five years. None of that repaired a broken world. None of that could turn back time. All of the innocence they’d had as children, all the security of their world being eternal…it was gone. Even if they managed to beat the odds and defeat Nox, the wizarding world would still be broken. Nothing they did could ever right that one, fundamental wrong.

“Yeah. You want to know the best part? It’s that we’ll have to leave these people behind in order to save Saint Potter and his girlfriend. It’s that we’ll be leaving the Ministry to the tender mercies of those Muggle bastards because it’s so damn important the _messiah_ be rescued.”

She shifted her weight from one aching foot to the other and back again. “You know we don’t have a better option. You _know_ that.”

“Oh, I know. It’s still rotten, though,” he said, and turned away, toward the door that led to the stairwell. “Come on. We’re wasting time.” That was such a good thing about him, wasn’t it? He wasn’t at all fond of too much sentimentality at once, of too much group therapy.

That was something she appreciated – not just in general, but about him.

He opened the door, and she followed.

This was new, wasn’t it? Yes, it was, and that was, for once, a good thing.

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **“So once we free the big damn heroes,** kill the villains, and save the world,” Draco said, as they were heading down the dark and empty stairwell, “what then? I mean after we pop the champagne and sing songs of fortitude and friendship.”

She held out her wand before her so that she wouldn’t stupidly trip and fall on her face, said, “That’s actually a good question,” and scratched her head through the beanie. Did it even make sense anymore to wear the thing? Well, she might need it in the future (if there even was a future). Waste not, want not and all that. “I don’t know. We could reopen Hogwarts, start cleaning up the mess.”

“Sounds great. But I have a question: how could we ever go back to the way things were? After all the killing, all the damage, all the bad blood…after the entire Muggle world has found out about us, has learned to _hate_ us? How can we” – He shook his head and exhaled sharply – “well, you get the point.”

For a few seconds, she didn’t reply. Honestly, for the past five years, she’d been so focussed on finding a way to survive, to save her loved ones, to plainly save what was left of the wizarding world, that she hadn’t spent much time thinking about how to proceed should they actually _win_. She breathed in the stale, cool air, and said, “I don’t think we can.”

“Can what?”

“Go back to the way things were. That won’t happen. Even if we manage to vanquish all our enemies-”

“Vanquish our enemies? Cute.”

She chose to ignore this. “Even then, the damage is done. Most of us are dead. The world knows about us. All the structures, the hierarchies have been broken. There is no going back.”

Glancing at her over his shoulder, he said, “Bucket of laughs, you are.”

“It’s what I think. I won’t mince words just to spare your fragile feelings.”

At that, he snorted laughter. “You have no idea how grateful I am for that,” he said, cleared his throat, then added, “really, now.”

“Thank you.” She meant it, too. After they passed another door – and she just told herself to trust that he knew where he was going – she said, “I left Wales believing that I had a fair shot at getting here by myself, of freeing the people trapped in the amber, of making a difference. But I’m not a dreamer. There is no going back to the old ways. That’s just a fact.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean I can’t wonder about what a solution might look like…even though that’s getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Looking ahead gives you a reason to push through all the horror.”

Again, he chuckled. “Listen to her bending backwards to make me feel like a decent person.”

“You are a decent person.” After a moment’s hesitation, she amended, “Sort of.”

“And you’re honest about it, too. I can see why Weasley likes you so much. Pity he’s probably shot to pieces at this point.”

Her stomach cramped. She pressed her lips together.

He stopped dead in his tracks – so suddenly, in fact, that she nearly bumped into him. “That was quite horrible. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Was that an apology?” she said dryly.

A very heavy, very awkward silence ensued. He was still facing ahead, and she was still staring at his back.

“I’m not good at those,” he said, and scratched his neck. “I’m sorry, okay?” Passive-aggressive and defensive, but better than nothing.

Also, she needed to admit that she wasn’t good at apologising, either. She knew what kind of an effort it took. Besides, she knew that he’d made that silly, wannabe edgy joke without thinking about the possible ramifications. That might not be a good excuse, but it was very human. “Okay,” she said, doing her best to sound amicable. “Are we there, yet?”

The comment elicited an honest-to-God laugh. It was a pretty sound. “Yes, as a matter of fact. This is our exit.” He pointed at the door in question.

“Does this moment require a pre-action one-liner?”

“How about ‘show-time’,” he said, and pushed the door open.

 

* * *

 

 

**6** **There was no getting past that door via conventional means.** The amber had billowed up almost to the doorframe, ceiling to floor, wall to wall. There were no people caught in it there – thankfully. One could clearly discern that this was near the centre of the explosion. They were getting close – very close.

This was it.

“Time to spring the trap, don’t you thing?” Hermione said. The only reaction she got was a curt nod, which she took as invitation to shrug out of that awfully heavy rucksack. When it was off her back, she took a few seconds to relish the lack of weight on her back before she kneeled down, unzipped the thing, and pulled the concussus out.

“One thing I never got,” Draco said, as he watched her work, “is how you even managed to get your hands on fragments of this stuff to experiment on.”

“Does it really matter?” Her hands were shaking a bit, but she managed to focus and start tuning the big dials on the heavy box to the correct frequency.

He pondered this for a bit. “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”

“Ginny had been experimenting with the amber for a while. Remember how I told you what it was originally for? I had some samples on me when everything came crashing down around us.” The configuration part was done. Now, all she had left to do was switch it on. “This will work.” She flipped the toggle and held her breath.

“Here goes nothing,” he said. A low hum started rising from the machine – some kind of vibration, too, that went right through bones and teeth and made the eyes water. “Are you sure this thing won’t liquefy _us_?”

“Almost.” She stuffed the device back into the rucksack and re-shouldered the whole thing, before pushing herself back up to her feet.

“I suppose there are worse ways to go.”

Her heart was pounding. She was covered in gooseflesh. All her muscles were sore. Her hands were sweaty. She felt a little ill. “I-” The rest of the sentence got stuck in her throat as the amber started turning into a fine mist. It started slowly, gradually, but then, it seemed to happen all at once. Without thinking, without looking, she reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “It’s actually working!”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, snickering, sounding pretty incredulous, himself. “It’s dissipating. Let’s go.”

They set into motion. The big office – the situation room – was just down the hall.

“Be ready for nasty surprises,” she said, before opening the door…

…to find Harry and Ginny on the floor, holding each other, coughing and shivering.

“Harry! Ginny!” It just sort of blurted out of her. She resisted the urge to rush over and hug them both, though. There simply wasn’t enough time.

Both of the newly freed looked up at her, squinting, their eyes watering.

“What…Hermione, is that you?” Ginny said, trying and failing to get up to her feet.

“Touching and all, but we really need to get whatever it is we need and _then_ get the hell out of here.” Draco readjusted his hat yet again. He kept looking around.

Harry, hair in his face and his glasses askew on his nose, blinked, focussed his eyes, and then looked so shocked, it was almost comical. “ _Malfoy?_ ”

“Can we clear this up later? We should really-”

“Draco.” The voice came from the door they’d just walked through.

Everyone stared in that direction, disbelieving.

All colour drained from Draco’s already pale face. His eyes went wide. He looked as if he was going to faint.

There were six people standing at the entrance. The two black-clad women and one black-clad man pointing firearms at the little group inside, Hermione didn’t recognise. The short-ish man in the suit with the dark hair and the huge blue eyes she didn’t recognise, per se, but it was obvious who that was. It was the boss himself. It was the man in charge. This was Nox, in the flesh.

It had to be.

This mission was way too important for him to send an underling. Besides, there was something about him, about the way he comported himself that just screamed ‘I’m the one giving orders around here’.

The only reason Hermione didn’t immediately try to disarm and stun these freaks was that they were holding two people at gunpoint – two people she recognised very well: Daphne Greengrass and Narcissa Malfoy.

Oh, dear.

“Mother,” Draco said, in a tone both hopeful and quietly desolate.

It was enough to send shivers down Hermione’s spine.

“Lower your little magic sticks, friends,” Nox (it just _had_ to be him) said, smiling. It didn’t look like he was gloating or anything. He looked genuinely happy. Weird. “You know you can’t stun or kill me without killing these two lovely ladies, as well. Besides, there are at least a dozen witches and wizards left in the Ministry. If something happens to me, they die, and we will still get what we want. You can all infer who I am, can’t you? I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely sure that I’ve got all my metaphorical bases covered.”

Narcissa Malfoy gave him such a toxic, hate-fuelled side-glance, it was a wonder he didn’t just drop dead.

When Harry tried to get to his feet, Nox pointed his own handgun at Harry’s face, looking rather apologetic. “Please don’t. You’ve got quick reflexes, but not that quick. I don’t want to kill you.”

There were a million questions whirring inside Hermione’s mind right now. The easiest one to answer was how he and his goons had even got inside the Ministry. Narcissa Malfoy had helped him. Why had she helped him? In exchange for her son’s life. But what about everything else?

There was a look on Daphne’s face that didn’t look like fear – not entirely, at least. No, it looked like she was…wait, was this eagerness?

Hermione’s stomach lurched.

Daphne had found something out – something important.

They needed to get out of here.

“You son of a bitch,” Draco said lowly, pointing his wand directly at Nox’s face. “You miserable, repulsive, disgusting Muggle _piece of shit_.”

The poisonous expression leaked off Mrs Malfoy’s face as she focussed her attention on her only child. She was clearly keeping a lid on her emotions, and still, it was clear how proud she was of her son. “Draco,” she said, calm and composed, “please look at me, darling. Look at me.”

With obvious difficulty, he did.

Hermione saw Ginny surreptitiously inching her hand toward her wand, which lay next to her on the stone floor, and gnashed her teeth together. These weren’t impossible odds, and the magic in here was still working. But how to incapacitate their enemies without getting anyone killed?

“Mother.”

“She’s fine, you know – has been this whole time,” Nox said. Wait, was there a little bit of irritation colouring his chipper tone? Curious. “Your father, too.”

Draco’s eyes widened even more. He kept staring at his mother. “ _What_?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly. “It’s true. He’s alive and well. Draco, sweetheart, you need to listen to me. Please listen.” Oh, no. If she manged to convince him to surrender, then all would be lost. Not only couldn’t they beat the odds with any less people, but he knew _everything_.

Acid sloshed in Hermione’s stomach. “Draco.”

Ginny kept reaching slowly for her wand.

Harry shifted his weight a bit, hiding his right side from their enemies’ line of sight. Was his wand in his pocket? He wasn’t going to go down without a fight, that much was for sure.

“ _Listen_ to me,” Mrs Malfoy said, still calm, but nonetheless with unmistakeable urgency. “You need to do what’s right here, Draco. Even if it requires making sacrifices, you need to do what’s right. Do you understand me? Everything depends on it. Your father and I are counting on you. We are all counting on you.” She glanced at Daphne, “I’m sorry, my dear,” and smiled at her son. “Goodbye.”

Nox only realised what was happening a split second before it happened. His eyes went wide. He swerved around, started screaming, “ _Narcis_ -”

But she was quicker. In a flash, she’d wrestled the gun from his hand, whirled around, and fired at the black-clad goons.

The rest was lost in chaos.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh and Mary have a moment, the Hogwarts think tank gets to work, and things take a wrong turn at the Ministry of Magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I quote Battlestar Galactica 2003 in here and I regret nothing. ;-)

 

**1** **Josh left Windsor Castle** fully intending to return to his post at the Palace of Westminster. He wasn’t planning on disobeying orders anymore or anything – really, he wasn’t. Still, a while after leaving Windsor almost in a trance, he realised that he was heading toward Mary’s place – Mary, who always let him stay when he couldn’t stand the empty old house anymore; Mary, who’d risked her life for the sake of the cause…

…and now here he was, the son of a witch, the offspring of a monster.

Mary could have died getting those witches to London. She risked everything. She was brave and selfless and absolutely committed – and Josh? His own mom had been one of those things. Hell, both his parents and his grandparents had died because of what she’d been. Josh had been wounded badly and scarred for life – both literally and metaphorically.

Deep down, he’d know. Part of him had, at least.

The rest of him had poured all his energy into burying this suspicion deep down.

The scariest aspect of this all was that this kind of abomination could strike a normal family at random: out of nowhere, a witch could be born. The thought was, to put it mildly, horrifying. Disorienting. Sickening.

Now he understood why Nox had wanted to keep him out of the loop today, away from the action. Because he couldn’t be relied on during an emotionally stressful situation. Because his mom had been a witch and he couldn’t be counted on keeping his cool.

Maybe he was even dangerous. Who knew? His frequent violent outbursts couldn’t be normal, couldn’t be natural.

Okay, Sarah kept telling him he had an attitude problem, but what did she know?

Oh, God.

At least Nox was doing something about this nightmare. At least he was not only keeping a cool head, but planning to save humanity from all the horrors lurking in the shadows. At least _he_ knew what he was doing. That was why he was the boss and Josh was just a dumb hick who kept messing up despite his best intentions. The road to hell was paved with all kinds of those, wasn’t it?

This was bad.

Soon enough, he found himself in front of Mary’s door. His eyes were sore. His head was pounding. He rang the bell.

Not thirty seconds later, Mary opened the door. The smile that blossomed on her face at the sight of him quickly disappeared again. “Oh, dear, what’s the matter?”

He bit his lower lip, slowly shook his head, and wiped a few strands of his fair hair from his forehead. “I…can I just come in and sit down a bit?”

“Of course you can! Come on in!” She ushered him inside, locked the door behind him, and followed him into her small, but lovingly decorated living room. After he dropped himself on her threadbare, yet comfortable old couch, she joined him, took him in her arms, started stroking his hair. “Want to talk about it, love?”

Leaning back and closing his eyes, he said, “I honestly don’t know. It’s…it’s pretty awful. My head’s swimming. I can’t even think straight anymore.”

“Did the boss finally help you understand that it’s not your fault your mum was a witch?”

There was a pang in his stomach. He sat up straight so abruptly, he nearly butted heads with her. Staring at her out of wide eyes, his blood rushing in his ears, he said, “You _knew_?”

The worry lines on her face got smoothed out by a radiant, warm smile. Her usually braided her was open, falling down to her shoulders in pretty waves. She was wearing her favourite type of downtime clothes: old jeans and a loose jumper. This was always when she looked the most beautiful: when she was in her element – when she was relaxed. “Oh, Josh,” she said, cupped his face, and placed a little kiss on his lips, “of _course_ I knew. That was the only explanation that made any sense. You just didn’t want to see it because it’s so painful.” Again, she kissed him, this time slower. “But it’s all right, you know. It’s quite all right. Everything’s going to be just fine.” Almost timidly, she added, “I love you.”

The headache didn’t go away or anything, but it didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. The world didn’t look as grey. The load didn’t feel as heavy. He took her hands into his, kissed her knuckles, and smiled. It felt natural, too, as if it was supposed to be there. “I love you, too, Mary…even more now that I know just _how_ much smarter you are than me.”

“You just keep feeding the ‘dumb blond’ cliché,” she said, good-natured, “or was it ‘dumb American?”

“Me, I’m just dumb all the way. No need to insult anyone else,” he said, and took her into his arms before placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Being here with you makes it easy for me to believe that all of this will end well.”

She hugged him tightly and leaned her head against his shoulder. “A happy ending for humankind.”

“For humankind, yes,” he said, closed his eyes, and breathed in the sweet, floral scent of her hair – her shampoo, anyway. It was lovely. It was more than lovely, actually; it was home. “I’m gonna wipe the ugly truth of my heritage clean, Mary. We’re gonna clean the world up, and then, we won’t have to be afraid anymore ever again.”

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **The how-to-save-the-world scheme itself was pretty insane –** well, both of them were, McGonagall’s as well as Theo’s. Then again, if six years ago someone had told Pansy that Muggles would take over the world and basically kill magic, she would have laughed in their faces. What a silly notion, right? Ridiculous. Inconceivable.

Well.

She listened for about half an hour to Theo and Callidora expositing, showing her textbooks and scribbles on parchments, watched them get more excited about their dastardly scheme by the minute – actually, Theo got positively giddy, and Callidora’s smile turned into something that looked genuine for once. Not that Pansy blamed her for her usual masquerade; after all, Callidora’s family was very old and very proper. They did not approve of their family members letting the icy façade melt.

Honestly, that was something to be envied, this ironclad kind of self-composure.

Pansy had never been this good at keeping it to herself – never.

Anyway, she listened to both of them in awe, torn between believing they might actually be onto something and wanting to slowly back out of the room. The thing was, they needed to get crazy in order to win.

…in order to win.

For years, she hadn’t actually believed that they could win at all. They’d fought and lost, then they’d run and hidden away in the forest. That had been it. There hadn’t been anything left to fuel hope. Even Granger’s dastardly scheme had seemed a fool’s errand. Hell, even once Pansy had contacted Draco and had allowed herself to believe that they might actually put a stop to the Malleus Deorum (and damn, was that name melodramatic!), there still was no reason to hope for salvation. The brunt of the wizarding world was still in ruins. Most of them were still dead. The Muggles still knew about them. What hope was there, really?

But this plan? This hare-brained insanity? It might actually work.

McGonagall didn’t think so, though.

The four of them – McGonagall, Pansy, Callidora, and Theo – were now inside what used to be Dumbledore’s office. That was comforting, wasn’t it? Nothing had changed in here. Good old Dumbledore was in his painting, sitting in an overstuffed armchair, reading a book. There was no reason for him to worry, was there? After all, he was only a painting. He was beyond worry.

Callidora, Pansy, and Theo were sitting before the heavy old desk, opposite McGonagall, like students about to get a scolding. It wasn’t like that, though. They were having a discussion – almost like grown-ups. The thought was rather amusing.

“This idea of yours is creative, yes, but entirely ludicrous,” McGonagall said, and rubbed her forehead as if she were incredibly weary, as if she’d said these words dozens of times before. She probably had. “It cannot work. It will not work.”

“If it doesn’t, Headmistress, then we’ll still have your snow globe plan to fall back on,” Theo said, not sounding at all disdainful or negative. He was just…well, not that great at expressing himself without ruffling feathers – never had been.

McGonagall arched one thin eyebrow at him. “It’s not that simple, though, is it, Mister Nott? Even if the magical part of your plan were to work – and that is a very big if – there is still the matter of identifying the correct target! How on Earth do you plan to accomplish that? Not to mention all the other possible ramifications that could lead to an even worse disaster than the one we’re already living through!” Clearly exasperated because she couldn’t get the knuckleheads to see, she threw up her hands and slowly shook her head. She looked at each of them in turn. “I understand the urge to find a fix-all solution like that; I do. Still, this is _not_ the way.”

“It’s far from a fix-all solution, Headmistress,” Callidora said, cool as cucumber, composed as always. “Much of the things we’ve learned, of the progress we’ve made as a society will be lost.”

This time, McGonagall raised both eyebrows. “I can’t say I’m not a wee bit surprised at your sudden defence of progress, Miss Selwyn, but I suppose there really are miracles.”

Pansy looked from her to Callidora and back again. Oh, dear. Alluding to Callidora’s past as a Voldemort supporter could potentially lead to disaster. Callidora had some pull within the community; that wouldn’t have changed, even if the people in here old enough to know her hadn’t seen her in years. The last thing they all needed was to bicker among themselves. Still, Pansy had to grudgingly admit that she understood where the Headmistress was coming from. She’d lost many friends and allies during the war.

Then again, so had the other side.

Callidora looked away for a moment, brushed back some of her reddish hair, and shrugged. “I can’t change how you feel about me, ma’am, but I can promise you that we are all together in this current crisis.”

“You will forgive me if I remain sceptical,” McGonagall returned dryly, unimpressed. “Still, I’m willing to set aside any resentment many of us harbour if you promise me not to go public with either of our ideas before we’ve all agreed on the best course of action. Then, we can present our respective plans to everyone else and vote.”

“That sounds logical to me,” Callidora said, then turned to the two others. “Pansy? Theo?”

Theo yet again ran his bony fingers through his shaggy hair. He blew out a heavy, tremulous breath and nodded. He was even thinner than he used to be, wasn’t he? Paler, too – almost waxen.

Pansy nodded, too. She didn’t care about old wizarding politic. All she wanted was to help put a stop to the demise of their world. Now, which plan was better? Which was more realistic? Her thoughts wandered to Daphne, Draco, and Saint Granger. Here was to hoping they were still alive. Here was to hoping they were making those Muggles’ lives hell.

What mattered most right now was that the people in here, inside the Hogwarts safe-zone hadn’t given up. They were working on a solution. They were _doing_ something…

…and they had a plan.

 

* * *

 

 

**3** **Narcissa Malfoy was quick – quick as lightning.** Before anyone knew what was happening, she’d wrestled the gun from Nox’s hands, whirled around, and fired shots at the three bodyguards.

Oh, _shit!_

Time to act.

Harry and Ginny both pointed their wands and started firing curses, but they were still shaky and their aim was off. The curses flew wide.

One of the goons went down, screaming. The one next to her pulled her outside. The third aimed to shoot, but Daphne tackled her, screaming at the top of her lungs. They crashed onto the floor.

Nox tackled Narcissa, his face a contorted mask of hatred. They went sprawling just behind the doorframe, halfway out of sight.

Draco yelled, “ _Stupefy!_ ” and hit the woman wresting for control of the gun with Daphne.

From behind the cover of the doorframe, the unwounded bodyguard – the only guy – fired into the room.

The shot ricocheted, whined past Hermione’s ear. “ _We need to get-_ ”

That was when she heard it – when they all heard it: heavy boots approaching from outside. Oh, no. “ _Get together, people!_ ”

Daphne scrambled off the stunned soldier, stumbled, fell, pushed herself up, and limped inside the room. Blood was running into her eyes from a gash on her forehead.

“ _They’re coming!_ ” Ginny was steadying Harry, who still couldn’t get his bearings by himself.

There was a shot, close by, followed by a nasty, wet gurgling sound – a woman.

Narcissa Malfoy.

Draco screamed – a primal, raw expression of pure rage. He started moving toward the exit, but Hermione was quicker.

She broke into a run, skidded to a halt in front of him, and grabbed him by the shoulders. “ _No! You can’t help her!_ ”

“ _I don’t care!_ ”

“ _Then she will have sacrificed herself for nothing! Remember what she said!_ ”

A gunshot hummed past them, crashed into one of the walls.

“ _No more time!_ ” Ginny was barely standing, providing support to both Harry and Daphne. “ _Hermione!_ ”

“Draco,” Hermione said, a bit quieter. Her heart was thundering. Sweat was running down her face. Her hands were clammy. Still, none of it felt quite real. “Remember what she told you. Please. _Please_.”

For a couple more seconds, he wouldn’t make eye-contact, but then, he looked at her and nodded curtly, lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Trust me,” she said, took his hand, and pulled him over to the others. “Everyone, hold onto each other! Ginny, Harry, remember our wartime safe house?”

Both nodded.

“Let’s _go!_ ”

“What about the others out there?” Harry said, and broke out coughing. He was ashen, sweating, and trembling.

“We can’t help them,” Hermione said, glancing at Draco, who was glaring silently at nothing in particular. “Let’s go.”

They Apparated out of that place.

Ginny and Harry had been freed, yes, but the Ministry of Magic had now officially been lost.

 

* * *

 

 

**4** **The little group materialised on a windswept hill,** among sand, sea lavender, the cries of seagulls, and the briny smell of the ocean. Hermione looked about, squinting in the red glare of the setting sun, her skin pebbling with gooseflesh, her muscles tense. It was cold – very cold. There it was, though, at the top of the cliff, intact and untouched by all the tribulations the world had gone through these past five years: Shell Cottage.

Harry dropped onto the sandy ground, coughing, wheezing, his head in his hands.

Ginny, even though she looked a little green around the gills – her coppery hair a knotted mess that framed her skinny, pale face – was steadying the bleeding Daphne. “Magic still works here, then.”

“It was a long shot,” Hermione said, hugging her arms to herself. It was _freezing_! The sunshine had been blocked by clouds, now, too. “But it was the only one we had.”

Draco, without saying a word, pocketed his wand, ripped the cheap hat off his head, tossed it aside, and started marching down toward the beach.

Mopping blood out of her eyes with a trembling hand, Daphne said, quietly, “Draco…”

“We need to get you inside, take care of your wound,” Ginny said. “Harry?”

Hermione helped him up.

“Thanks,” he said, took a few deep breaths, and signalled her to let go of him. “I’m okay. I…” He trailed off, looked around, and readjusted his glasses. “How long were we in the amber?”

“Five years.” Hermione glanced over her shoulder, down the beach. Her stomach was cramping. She shrugged out of her rucksack. Farther away, coming from the sea, were black storm clouds. White lightning bolts were horizontally shooting across the darkening sky. Thunder rumbled lowly. They needed to get inside soon. “Listen, Harry, I-”

The crackle of two people Apparating onto the cliff distracted everyone. It was Luna and Rolf.

A look of pure joy lit up Harry’s face. “Luna! You’re okay!”

“Harry!” She smiled sweetly. Her face was a bit sooty, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. “Ginny! They really saved you!”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Daphne said, leaning heavily on Ginny.

“Let’s get you inside,” Ginny said, and started leading Daphne toward the whitewashed, shell-embedded little domicile. “I hope it’s still habitable.”

Luna looked about herself. “Where’s Malfoy?”

“At the beach. His mother got shot,” Hermione said, and tried to swallow the knot in her throat.

“Oh, should we do something?”

Hermione shook her head. It really was freezing up here, wasn’t it? The humidity being carried over from the ocean wasn’t helping matters. She was glad she hadn’t discarded the beanie. “If you want to help, go and assist Ginny. We need to get the place warded against possible attackers, too.”

Rolf took Luna’s hand. Together, they went toward the cottage.

That left Hermione and Harry.

He looked a little less like he was about to capsize. The sea breeze was probably helping matter along quite a bit. He smiled at her. “I knew that if anyone was gonna save us, it’d be you.”

Despite everything, she returned the expression. “Well, I had help.”

The smile vanished, being replaced by something akin to confusion. “Yeah, I see. You’re working with _Malfoy_?”

Suddenly, all the anxiety of the past few days started to weigh very heavily on her whole body. “He saved my life, Harry. Without him, I wouldn’t have even made it out of Wales.”

“Wales? What were you doing in Wales? And where’s Ron, anyway?” His eyes went wide. “Don’t tell me he-”

“ _No_ ,” she cut in, probably a bit too sharply for comfort. “No. He’s alive. Listen, Harry: go inside. Rest. We should be safe here tonight. Nobody knows about this place, and they’ll have their hands full at the Ministry, anyway.” There was a good chance that Nox’s plan had worked despite Narcissa Malfoy’s wild card play. Maybe he’d been after an object, a document, or someone else who’d been frozen in the amber. “We’ll talk inside. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Harry’s gaze wandered toward the beach. It was clear that he had a million questions, but thankfully, he understood that now was not the time. He nodded almost imperceptibly. “See you inside. I’ll take your rucksack.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, touched his elbow, turned, and hurried down to the beach.

 

* * *

 

 

**5** **Draco was sitting on the cold, pebbly sand,** knees up, staring at the horizon, his pitch-black hair flying about his face.

After a moment’s hesitation, she settled down to his left.

For a moment, they just sat there. Further down below, the sea started to roil. The tide was coming in. The storm clouds were approaching, too. The wind picked up. This really was a beautiful and lonely place – a place forgotten by all the death and hopelessness spreading throughout the world.

The sand was clammy and chilly. Hermione shifted her weight, pulled her sleeves over her hands, crossed her legs, and hugged her arms to herself. Should she say something? What was appropriate here?

A couple of minutes or so went by like that.

Then, out of nowhere, he buried his face in his hands and burst into sobs.

After a few seconds of fighting the impulse to flee, she got over herself (this wasn’t about her, after all) and put an arm around his quavering shoulders.

He tensed up at first, but didn’t shake her arm off.

They remained like that until the storm had almost caught up with them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and her little group talk shop.

 

**1** **The storm clouds were approaching quickly.** Hermione and Draco had been sitting on the cold sand by the roiling sea; he’d been crying, she’d had an arm around his shoulders. After about ten minutes or so, he managed to get a hold on his emotions…either that, or he was all out of tears for the moment. When he started straightening his position, she pulled back her arm. They went back to sitting side by side in silence, looking at the darkening horizon.

At length, he said, “We should leave before we get a chance to get fried by lightning.” His voice was thick and trembling slightly, but he had it under control. He wiped at his eyes and sniffled. “Ten years ago, I’d rather have thrown myself off the Astronomy Tower than let you see me like this.”

“I doubt that,” she said. “You were never _that_ much of an idiot.”

The comment actually elicited a dry chuckle. “That’s what _you_ think.”

“I didn’t use to, but now I know better…just like you know better than to call me unflattering, not to mention racist nicknames.”

“True. I’ve come to understand that you aren’t just a know-it-all; you really do know it all.”

The wind picked up. All her muscles tensed. Her teeth were clenching together without her permission. Still, she smiled a bit. “You catch on pretty quick, as the idiom goes.”

There was even more humidity in the air – salt-spray that numbed fingers, chapped lips, and made eyes sting.

He said, “We ran right into the trap, but my mother ruined it…at least a bit. If getting Potter and Weasley was the objective, then she might’ve saved the world. If it wasn’t, well, then she died for nothing.”

She didn’t quite look at him, but could hear the bitterness tinging his tone of voice quite clearly. “She saved you, me, Daphne, Harry, and Ginny, at least. That’s a lot.”

“Took her death for us to accomplish anything, and that’s me assuming that we didn’t just hand over whatever that Muggle piece of shit wanted, in the first place.” He took a deep, quivering breath.

“I’m going to assume that we didn’t. I’m going to assume that whatever he wanted, it’s in Ginny Weasley’s mind.”

“Or written down on some piece of parchment. Or in someone else’s mind, as well – someone who was also frozen in the amber and is now freed.”

“If that’s the case, then at least we’re on equal footing. Maybe we’re even at an advantage: whatever Nox does to get information from his prisoners, we’ll get through cooperation. Also, now we know what he looks like.”

The remark had him crease his forehead. “I think you may be onto something. When I saw him, he seemed oddly familiar.” He wiped some of his clammy hair from his face – probably for the millionth time today. “Just a stupid feeling, probably. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“We should go back inside and see what Daphne found out at that soldier’s house.”

His shoulders slumped a bit. He ran his knuckles across his eyes and chuckled dryly. “Oh, the many things I’d rather be doing other than having a heart-to-heart with Saint Potter and his girlfriend.”

“Think of it as having a heart-to-heart with Saint Weasley and her boyfriend.”

He made a face at her, then turned to look at the approaching storm clouds again. “I hope they don’t ask about my mother…or offer sympathies.”

She felt heavy – heavy as lead. “You can’t even be sure she’s-”

“ _Don’t_. Just don’t.”

“Okay.” She breathed in deeply the humid, salty air. “I think they’ll know to leave you alone.” When he didn’t reply anything, she added, “We should get inside. I really don’t want to get struck by lightning.” With that, she got back to her feet and started wiping sand off her trousers.

After he was done doing the same, they started trudging back uphill, toward the cottage.

Out of nowhere, he suddenly said, “Thanks.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw that he had his hands in the pockets of his jumper and was frowning down at the sand and the sea lavender. The going up wasn’t exactly rough, but it had been a long day, and climbing a hill was still climbing a hill. Despite the cold wind, she was starting to sweat.

“For what?” Her breathing was laboured. She really needed to lie down and sleep – just sleep without worrying about the fate of the world.

“Oh, you know. Don’t fish for compliments.”

She knew. “You’re welcome.” It was nice, wasn’t it? Being thanked. This couldn’t be easy for him. She should know; it wasn’t easy for her, either. Still, she swallowed the knot in her throat as best she could, told herself to stop being silly, and said, “Thank you, too.”

“I know. I’m just that amazing.”

“We might actually win this,” she said, as they crested the hill. The first raindrops started to patter down on them. “I’m not just saying that, either. I really think we can.”

“You know what?” He stopped walking.

“What?” She did the same and turned to face him.

He was rather ashen, even though there were reddish blotches on his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, the epidermis around them swollen. Still, he tried to smile. It didn’t quite work, but he tried. It was all in the attitude, wasn’t it? All ‘keep calm and carry on’.

She had to admit that this was commendable and that he’d really come a long way from being an insufferable, spoiled brat with delusions of grandeur and no clue as to how the world worked. In fact, nobody could afford that kind of naivete anymore. The question was: who could stand the pressure of these trying times and who would falter? During their Hogwarts days, she would never have thought that he’d become part of the latter group…well, until that fateful day at Malfoy Manor, when he’d shown enough moral fibre not to rat out his former classmates, which would have led to their certain deaths.

Lightning raced across the sky. Thunder boomed. The wind picked up. The rain did, as well.

“I think we can win, too,” he said, rolled his eyes, chuckled, and scratched his neck. “I thought your whole infallible plan was ridiculous and a suicide mission, but now? I believe it might actually work. I _have_ to, now that…” He trailed off, pressed his fist to his lips, and harrumphed. “Well. Is there a shower in that cottage? I need to get my hair back to normal.”

“There is,” she said, turned, and started walking again. “Come on. It would be more than ridiculous if we caught our deaths out here, wouldn’t it?”

“And this is about as much ridiculousness as I can stomach.” That was what he needed, wasn’t it? Space. Space to cope with his mother’s death – his father’s, too, in all probability.

 

* * *

 

 

**2** **“Do you know why Bill and Fleur left this place? Magic still works here,”** Ginny said, in between one spoonful of tinned beans and the next. “These Muggle rations prove that they were planning on either staying here or at least coming back.”

For about the millionth time, it seemed, Hermione ran her fingers through her short, shaggy hair. She probably looked like a halfway shorn sheep, but right now, it was probably not too smart to use too much magic. The Malleus might pick it up. Besides, it didn’t matter, did it? Whatever vanity she had, basically everything else mattered ten times as much. She’d got herself and the others some tinned goods before they’d settled down in the small living room. Ginny set the fireplace alight as the world seemed to end outside; wind howled, thunder crashed, and rain pelted the cottage. Draco absconded to the shower without saying a word to anyone after stepping over the threshold. This had been about ten minutes ago, perhaps fifteen.

Brushing aside the horrible sound of that gunshot and Narcissa Malfoy’s blood-curdling cry of pain, Hermione leaned her aching head against the couch’s backrest, closed her eyes, and said, “This place was supposed to be a last refuge, a kind of place to fall back on…in case Wales didn’t pan out. They kept it secret from the rest of the group because of Ron.” Her stomach clenched. She stole a glance toward the staircase that led to the upstairs bathroom, then closed her eyes again and shifted her weight. Her entire body was aching. She needed to sleep, sleep, sleep. After sighing inwardly, she sat up straight again, ignored the discomfort, and faced Ginny. “At first, we all just joined forces when things started to go south – strength in numbers and all that.” She looked from Ginny to Harry and back again. “You have to understand, things were looking bleaker and bleaker. Everywhere people practiced magic, the Malleus showed up. We only barely got away. We-”

“My family,” Ginny cut in, her tone quiet, timid. It was so unlike her, it quieted everyone down, even their breathing.

Outside, the storm howled.

They were safe in here, at least for a little while.

Sleep would be nice, wouldn’t it? So very nice. Hermione felt so, so heavy. “We were together, at first, you see, but they found us. Somehow, they just knew where to look. When they found us, they had their magic suppressors with them.” Her throat constricted. She crossed her arms. Her hands were trembling. “Bill, Fleur, Ron, and I got out. Molly and Arthur told us to run. We ran.” She licked her chapped lips. It stung. She barely noticed it, though. “I don’t know what happened to the others. I…” She trailed off, took a soothing breath, and braced herself. Of course, she didn’t want to talk about Ron. Of _course_ not. It needed to be done, though.

Ginny needed to know. She deserved to know.

“Bill figured that if all else failed, maybe this place would still be here, in the end. It was protected via the Fidelius Charm, so whoever was feeding the Malleus inside information wouldn’t know about it. He thought that if nobody else knew about the place, it wouldn’t get discovered so easily. It might remain a refuge.” Hermione chewed on the inside of her cheek, fought the urge to just gloss over the subject of Ron. Again, she glanced toward the stairs.

Draco had been gone a while, hadn’t he? Yes, he needed some time alone to cope with his tragedy – and could it get any worse for him? – but what if he wasn’t coping at all?

Honestly, Hermione didn’t think any of them could stomach any more tragedy, but then again, they’d survived a lot more than even she would’ve thought possible a decade ago. She locked eyes with Ginny again. “Ron got sick – very sick. The others at the camp didn’t know this, but Bill and Fleur were planning on fleeing here with him if all else failed. They figured they could use the last bit of magic available here to cure him or at least slow down the disease. It was a long shot – none of us is an expert at curing cancer, and this place might have been compromised – but we were all running out of options.” She cast Daphne, who was occupying an overstuffed armchair and looking pretty down for the count. “Sorry, but things were looking so bleak, and they were just looking out for their brother.”

Daphne didn’t look angry; she looked depressed. “They’re not here.”

Hermione knew that Daphne hadn’t meant to wound, of course, but it still felt like a slap in the face. “No, but Bill and Fleur are clever. After we made our plans to breach the Ministry, they would have changed their tactic. They would have to assume that we’d get captured and that this place would no longer be safe. Even if they believed we might win, they wouldn’t want to crowd the cottage and risk being found out anyway. No. They went somewhere else.” A cold sliver went down her spine. “Maybe they tried Apparating into Hogwarts.”

“Too risky,” Daphne said, and scratched her forehead. The laceration was gone. That much, they risked healing with magic. “They probably wouldn’t even make it in, and even if: they’d be trapped in there.”

“Hogwarts was successfully sealed off, then?” That was the first time Harry spoke ever since they’d sat down.

Luna nodded. “Quite, yes. Draco thinks everyone is dead in there, but that doesn’t seem very likely to me.”

“We just refuse to believe that Minerva McGonagall of all people would not have a contingency plan,” Rolf added, before putting down his own empty tin.

Ginny was the only one still not finished, but she didn’t seem to be having much enthusiasm for food at the moment, anyway. Her face was pale, making her freckles stand out in stark contrast. “I…” Her voice broke. She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and collected herself, before locking eyes with Hermione again. “If Bill thought that this place wasn’t safe to return to, he wouldn’t risk bringing Ron here, especially if Ron was sick. He’d weigh all his options and then choose the alternative most likely to offer safety to his only living brother” – Again, her voice faltered; again, she managed to regain control within seconds – “and his wife. Risking death by attempting to Apparate into a magically sealed-off location would be preferable to risk getting caught by murderous Muggles.”

“The last thing I remember was warning everyone at the Ministry that they should get to Hogwarts before it was sealed away. McGonagall removed the charms that kept people from Apparating onto school grounds for a short time. But getting inside after the seal went up? That’s impossible.”

“I’d worry more about getting out.”

Everyone turned to watch Draco head downstairs.

“Draco,” Hermione said, scooted a bit to the left on the smaller couch she was occupying, and motioned at the vacant spot. “Sit. Are you hungry?”

He took the seat but shook his head. At least his hair was blond again. His natural hair colour suited him a lot better than that artificial black.

Hermione frowned at Harry when Harry, who was sitting opposite them on a large armchair with Ginny, tensed up visibly. Seriously? This was so not the time for _that_ nonsense! Well, okay – to be fair, she couldn’t really blame Harry for being a bit sceptical. He and Draco had history, and most of it wasn’t too positive. Harry had been frozen for five years and hadn’t lived through these last few days.

“You think people are trapped inside the seal?” she said, addressing Draco.

Returning her look, he nodded. “M-hm. If there are still people in there, they probably won’t be able to leave.”

“Why do you think that?” Harry said, his brow slightly creased.

“Because of the seal,” Draco said. He sounded subdued, but calm. “That kind of total protection comes with a price. I should know; we sealed off our estate before we fled…Astoria, Daphne, and I.”

“He’s right,” Ginny said, and finally placed the empty tin on the floor. “Sealed off means sealed off. This is why the spell was a last resort. It’s also why I was against using it at the Ministry. We needed to be able to get out quickly.”

“So I suppose _finite incantatem_ won’t cut it,” Harry said, his shoulders slumping a bit.

“Neither will the magic suppressors Hermione told us about,” Ginny added. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To preserve and protect.”

“People,” Daphne said, sitting up straight suddenly. Her eyes went wide. “I just remembered what I wanted to tell you…what I found out at Joshua Lucesco’s house.”

“Take it easy, Daphne,” Ginny said, raising her hands in a placatory gesture. “You took a pretty hard blow to the head.”

Daphne paid her no heed. “I found a book in that house…a manuscript, written on parchment. It was a census of every single wizard and witch in the United Kingdom. This included information about who’s alive, who’s dead, and who’s been captured.” She grimaced. “They took my rucksack. The census was in there, but also a letter that Lucesco’s mother wrote him. She was a witch and was killed during the Voldemort days.”

Everyone stared at her. When a log cracked loudly in the fireplace, they all flinched, too.

Nobody could be blamed for being jumpy.

“You’re _sure_?” Hermione said. She felt more awake now, more alert. Her thoughts started racing. This was interesting. This was maybe even the breakthrough they had been so desperately hoping for. When Daphne nodded, she added, “So he’s the insider!”

“No. No, no, no. His mother explained in her letter what she was, and the letter had to have been written shortly before she was killed. No, he didn’t know anything. Nox is the insider. He’s the one with all the information.”

“But _how_?” Even Draco perked up a bit. Good. He could use something to focus on other than what had happened to his mother. “He’s a Muggle.”

Daphne slowly shook her head at him. “No, he’s not. He’s not a Muggle at all. He’s a squib – has to be. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.”

“A…” Adrenaline shot through Hermione’s veins like acid. “Draco, you said he seemed familiar to you. You must actually have seen him somewhere before all this started!”

He shrugged, making a face. “I can’t remember where I know him _from_.”

“But this is an amazing breakthrough! Don’t you see?” Without even thinking about it, she reached out and grabbed his left wrist. “We know he’s from a wizarding family. We can assume it’s a traditional one for two reasons: one, he has access to way too much information and resources; two, you’ve seen him at least once before. That means this is someone we will be able to identify, and knowing your enemy is half the battle!”

“They do say you’re the smart one,” Draco said. He didn’t quite smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched a little. “I suppose they’re right.”

“Only took you seventeen years to finally admit to it.” This was a good thing – all of this. They were past despair and back to being hopeful.

Someone cleared their throat. It was Harry.

A weird little silence ensued.

That was when Hermione realised she was all but holding Draco’s hand. Oh. Oh, no, this wasn’t…well, she... This was silly. Hastily, she let go, crossed her arms, and said, “Pity we don’t have that census.”

“If our friend Nox is a squib from an old wizarding family, then we won’t need a census,” Draco said, and tapped a finger against his own forehead. “You do remember who I am, don’t you? I had to study all branches of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, whether I felt like it or not.”

“All the Pureblood families,” Daphne said, and rubbed her eyes. She looked just about done for. “Most of them removed squibs from their family trees, remember?”

“Not completely, though,” Draco countered.

“He’s right,” Harry said, straightening up. “Sirius’s house had the Black family tree on a wall. One of the faces was burned off, but there was still a name under it.” He looked down at his hands. “Sirius’s name was burned off, too.”

“The squib in question was Marius Black, born 1920,” Draco said, and shrugged when everyone’s attention was on him again. “See? I told you. I had to learn this nonsense.”

“Glad you think it’s nonsense now,” Harry said, giving him a meaningful look.

Draco just rolled his eyes.

In Hermione’s opinion, they could both just get over themselves.

“Turns out it isn’t, though, right?” Luna said, smiling. “If we can find out who Nox is this way, then you didn’t waste your time learning all those family trees by heart, Draco.”

“How reassuring,” Draco said, but it didn’t sound caustic at all. He actually sounded a little amused. “That reminds me: Weasley, please tell me you didn’t leave your special amber recipe at the Ministry for Nox to find.”

Ginny reached inside her jeans’ back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. “I had it with me when we ambered the Ministry.”

“ _Some_ good news, at least,” Draco said, and scratched his forehead. “Since the rest of the Ministry is his, now.”

“The fact that he’s a squib complicates things, too,” Hermione said. “Being a squib isn’t like being a Muggle. Magical locations won’t be hidden from him. He may not be able to perform magic, but he’s very capable of navigating whatever’s left of the wizarding world. That’s how he was able to wreak so much havoc, in the first place.”

“Wreak havoc? And I thought _I_ was the dramatic one,” Draco said, smiling a little.

She found herself smiling back. This kind of dealing with one’s grief was exactly her cup of tea – first grieving, then getting a hold of oneself and carrying on. “I excel at eclipsing everyone around me.”

“So, Harry, Ginny,” Rolf cut in, sounding a tad annoyed for some reason, “before you closed off the Ministry, did you make any incredible discoveries that might help us stop all this madness?”

Harry and Ginny exchanged a look. She said, “Sadly, no. We’ve yet to catch up to the rest of you.”

“But I think we now have everything we need,” Hermione said. “If we can find out who Nox really is, combined with what we’ve found out about the magic suppressors, as well as Ginny’s amber spell, we might just be able to come up with a viable plan.”

“There’s no way we’ll be able to get to Nox this easily again,” Daphne said. She was pale, almost waxen, and looked as if she was about to fall asleep in her seat. “He wanted us to breach the Ministry. He wasn’t afraid of me finding about the census. To be honest, I think he wanted us to find it. He may even want us to find out who he is. In any case, he’s not worried.”

“What my mother did,” Draco said, all mirth gone from his voice, “he didn’t anticipate that. That tells me that for all his smarts, he’s arrogant.”

“Precisely,” Hermione said, sitting straight, nodding vigorously. “If he really wanted us to find the census and put to and two together, discover his identity, then vanity might be his weak point. He’s a squib, right? He wants us to know who he is. That’s why he didn’t have us shot on sight at the Ministry. Like Voldemort, he _needs_ adulation. He wants to get rid of the stain of being unable to perform magic.”

“What’s stopping him from trying to get into Hogwarts?” Rolf said.

Outside, the wind and the rain picked up. It sounded as if the world were ending out there.

Maybe it was.

Hermione’s skin broke out in gooseflesh. “Even if it’s still possible to Apparate into Hogwarts, and even if he’s got someone to do it for him, he wouldn’t be able to get out.” Her head started to pound again.

If Bill and Fleur managed to get Ron into Hogwarts, then it might not have been too late to heal him. They’d still have enough magic, neatly sealed away and protected.

Ron hadn’t even been awake when she’d left Wales.

It hadn’t been too late, though – not to late to save him. It couldn’t have. She refused to believe it.

“If you were a squib, especially one born into a Pureblood family,” Harry said, looking from one to the next. The orange-reddish fire reflected off his glasses. “What would be the one thing you’d want above all else?”

“To be able to use magic,” Draco said. “Easy one.”

“So that’s probably why he wanted to get into the Ministry,” Ginny said, “and why he’ll try to get into Hogwarts once he doesn’t find the answers he’s looking for.”

“There are no answers,” Hermione said, frowning. “There’s no giving someone magic who doesn’t have it.”

“He’s been pretty successful at taking it away, though,” Rolf said, clearly doubtful. He scratched his beard. “Look at what he’s been up to these past five years. Assuming that he wants magic for himself is a pretty huge leap.”

“It makes sense, though,” Luna said, running the fingers of her right hand through his thick, brown hair. “To take away from us what we all took for granted and get it for himself. It _makes sense_.”

“It’s our best bet,” Hermione said, and shrugged. “This is how we might be able to catch him: his vanity, his arrogance, and the possibility that he might be trying to fix his status as a squib.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her. “Am I interpreting the portents correctly? Are you concocting another dastardly scheme in order to save the day again?”

She returned the expression. “If not me, who else?”

Outside, the storm howled. They were safe inside the cottage that night – safe and, finally, somewhat hopeful.


End file.
